Smoke Gets In Your Eyes
by monroeslittle
Summary: "I'm Ms. Rachel Berry," she told him, holding out her hand. "I'm from Ohio, and one day I'll be on Broadway." In May 1934, Finn Hudson falls for the new Friday night singer at McKinley's. And then everything spirals out of control. AU.
1. Chapter 1

_a/n: Okay, I know I should focus on "When The World Comes Down," but I've been toying with this idea for ages, and I can't help myself. Right now, the outline has ten chapters. I tend to write in more detail than I originally plan, though, so it'll probably end up as twelve or thirteen chapters. This is my first Glee fic in past tense (yes, I can do it, I swear!), my first legitimate multi-chapter for the fandom, and my first "period piece" so to speak (or "historical fanfiction" if that works) for any fandom. I hope it doesn't disappoint on any count! The fic is, above all, a Rachel/Finn story, but there are other romances, and I intend to include all the Gleeks we know and love :) The whole story won't be in Finn's POV, but he will be the leading man most of the time._

* * *

**1934. Detroit.**

"It's Hummel. I've got something for you. It's all here. Everything. You want to take down Mr. Karofsky? Here's all you need. Here's the whole story, the murder, the money, all of it. But you have to make me a promise. It isn't only his story, see. They're all tied up in it. And if you go after Karofsky, he'll try to take all the rest down with him. You have to promise me that won't happen. Can you do that? Here goes, then. It all started years ago, of course, but we don't have time for that. I'll start with when the new Fright night singer came. I'm not sure it's her real name, but she goes by Rachel. . . ."

_

* * *

_He hated McKinley's.

He didn't even know who the original McKinley was. But the club had to be named after somebody, didn't it? He wondered sometimes. McKinley was probably some poor fellow with a family, and he did right in every way he could, but he had something Karofsky wanted, so Karofsky took it. Finn felt bad when he thought about it, but there was no use to that. Puck always said McKinley's was a terrible name, anyhow. He always said if _he_ had a club, he'd call it something macho.

Finn didn't know what he'd call a club if he had one of his own.

But it didn't much matter. He didn't have a club of his own. All he had was McKinley's, and he hated every damn brick of the building. He sighed, stomped out what was left of his cigarette, and headed into the club. He had to go in eventually, didn't he?

It wasn't too crowded, but it wasn't too late, either.

Some Jazz boys were up on stage, and half the tables were full, and Finn could spot a few people— there was Mercedes up front, talking with some locals; Madame Sylvester sat with a few of her girls and that greasy twit Mr. Remington at one table; Artie Abrams was at another, and Brittany was already beside him, smiling and touching a hand to his knee.

He didn't see Mr. Karofsky, or any of his boys, not even Puck.

Finn focused on the bar, though, and he saw Sam, who nodded hello from across the smoky club. Finn slipped into a stool at the bar and Sam slid a drink to him, just like always. "Sam," he greeted.

"Finn," Sam said. "Haven't seen you around in a few days."

Finn grimaced into his glass. "Nope." He paused. "I might have been avoiding the place."

"I thought as much," Sam replied. "I'm glad you came tonight, though. He'd've gone after you if you'd tried to ignore him another day."

"I'm not so sure he still won't," Finn replied sourly, and Sam chuckled sympathetically. "He's coming in tonight, isn't he?" Maybe he wouldn't, and Finn could have a reprieve for another night.

"Always comes on Fridays," Sam replied. "You know that."

"Good evening, Mr. Evans!" a girl chirped.

She slipped into the seat beside Finn, and he glanced to the side to greet her; chances were if she came to McKinley's, he knew her. The moment he saw her, however, he nearly spat out his drink. He knew it wasn't right to stare, especially not at a stranger, but he couldn't _not_ stare.

"Evening, Ms. Berry," Sam said pleasantly. "What can I do you for?"

"An Orange Blossom, please," she replied pleasantly, smoothing her dress. He definitely didn't know her. And _what_ was she wearing?

She looked at Finn and caught his gaze. She smiled brightly. "I see you've noticed my hat," she said. "It's hard not to stare, I know. What do you think of it?"

_That_ was a hat?

"I think that . . .," Finn said, ". . . is a . . . _hat_." That made no sense, but he tried to smile. "A nice hat, I mean," he amended. From the corner of his eye, he could see Sam smirking. "I think that's a real nice hat," he repeated, trying another smile.

"Thank you!" the girl said, beaming. "I bought it at a little shop down on 5th. I usually like to make my own hats; I use all sorts of things: ribbons, buttons, flowers — anything I can put some thread to, really, but it's rather hard to make something quite so lovely as a hat like this."

"Right," Finn said, "I'd say."

"Orange Blossom, doll," Sam said, handing her a glass. Finn didn't even know what an Orange Blossom was. And he couldn't stop staring at the hat. Was it a bird or . . . ?

"I'm Ms. Rachel Berry," she told him, holding out her hand. "I'm from Ohio, and one day I'll be on Broadway."

He took her small hand, and she shook it firmly, surprising him. "Finn Hudson," he said. "I'm from Michigan." He didn't really have any ambitious future plans to share.

"From Detroit?" Ms. Rachel Berry asked brightly. "It's very pleasant here."

Finn thought she might be the first person ever to call Detroit very pleasant.

"Nope, a little West of here," he replied. She glanced at Sam, as if for an explanation.

"He came here to make it big," Sam told Rachel. "Just like all of us. He's a regular around McKinley's, actually, even if he hasn't been by in the last week." He addressed Finn. "Ms. Berry's been here every night since Monday, Finn."

"And my patience and perseverance has paid off," Rachel declared. "Mr. Schuester promised me I could audition tonight. I fully expect to dazzle the audience." She smiled again, took a dainty sip of her orange drink, and looked at Finn happily.

"Audition?" Finn asked. "You're a singer?"

"That's right," Rachel said proudly.

"And you want to sing _here_?"

"Not permanently, of course," she answered hastily. "I do intend to star on Broadway someday. But until I have enough savings to go to New York, I'll need some work here in Detroit. I've auditioned at a few others clubs, but, well, you know how hard it is these days."

She took another sip of her drink, a little less of a shine to her face. Finn felt bad. He wanted her audition tonight to go well, because it _was_ hard these days, and she seemed nice enough, if maybe a little crazy. She was tiny, and she had these big, bright eyes, and he thought maybe she could be pretty if she took off that hat.

But she didn't want to work at McKinley's.

No decent person wanted anything to do with a club like this.

"What do you do?" she asked him, turning slightly so as to face him.

"Me?"

"Yes, you," she said teasingly, smiling sweetly again, as if he had told a good joke. He was pretty sure he had never seen someone smile that widely before. It was kind of disorienting. He liked it, though.

"I'm a Boxer," he answered. "Just locally," he went on, "around Detroit and all." He felt suddenly as if he ought to defend himself, as if she would grimace at his words and turn away. She only looked at him, however, eyes large with interest, and nodded for him to go on. "I mean, it isn't a life," he said, "but it's something for now."

"I understand completely," Rachel assured earnestly, patting his arm. "I've never met a Boxer before. But you've very nice, Mr. Hudson, and you set a very good example for Boxers everywhere."

"I — thank you, I think," he said.

"You've very welcome. I — oh! It's Mr. Schuester! Excuse me, gentlemen. Oh, here." She pulled a dime from her skirt and handed it to Sam. "Do I look okay?" She smoothed her dress once more, and now that she stood he realised it wasn't a dress at all. Rather, she wore a skirt and jacket, both bright purple, and a lacy shirt that buttoned up her neck and was clipped with a large bird broach. She looked a little silly, maybe, but she was kind of cute, too. And she really was tiny, he decided.

But that _hat_.

"Maybe don't wear the hat," he suggested.

She frowned.

"I mean, I really like the hat," he went on quickly, glancing at Sam for support.

"Me, too," Sam said.

"But not everyone can appreciate how . . . how _bold_ it is," Finn said. "You know?"

To his relief, she nodded and reached up to slip off her hat. "You're right, of course. Thank you! Would you look after it for me? I'd simply _die_ if something happened to it!"

"Don't worry," he told her as she handed it over. He started to say something more, but he fumbled slightly. She had thick, dark, shiny hair that, now let loose, curled slightly around her face, and Finn realised she wasn't simply cute. She was actually sort of pretty. It wasn't the kind of beautiful that turned heads, but she was something.

"How do I look now?" she asked, biting her lip.

Finn didn't reply right away. "Gorgeous," Sam supplied.

"Yeah." Finn nodded.

"Thank you! Wish me luck." She paused.

"Good luck," Sam and Finn both offered.

She beamed and turned away, her eyes seeking Shuester once more before she found him and made a beeline for him, her purple skirt twirling about her ankles. "She's . . ." Finn began, watching as she startled poor old Mr. Schue, who looked momentarily confused and then simply tired as she waved her arms about and chatted his ear off.

"Eccentric?" Sam said. "Sure. But I kind of like her. It's hard to find somebody with spirit like that around here anymore." Finn handed her hat over to Sam, who put it beneath the bar and then turned to pour someone else a drink.

"Who's eccentric and spirited?" Kurt asked as he sat down beside Finn. "Clark Gable? I don't know if I'd call him eccentric, but he's certainly easy on the eyes. Back over here, Sam!"

"Who's Clark Gable?" asked Finn.

"Who's Clark Gable? Jeepers Creepers, Finn! Have you taken one too many hits to the head? Honestly." He shook his head, accepted a drink from Sam, and then pulled out his small notebook and pen. "What's new, then?" he asked.

"Nothing," Finn said.

"I haven't seen you in a few days," Kurt observed. Before Finn could come up with an excuse, Mercedes appeared. She always came by to greet Kurt when he arrived. She looked annoyed, and Finn suspected it was at whomever she had just served, but she brightened slightly as Sam slid her a glass of something and Kurt smiled at her.

"How's the next great American novel coming along, Kurt?" she asked him. She asked him that every night, and every night he merely smiled. "And if it isn't old Finn Hudson!" she exclaimed, feigning amazement. "Here I thought you'd forgotten about all of us at McKinley's."

"Impossible," Kurt dismissed. "We're unforgettable." He didn't look up as he spoke; he only continued to write something in his notebook. No one cared — Kurt came by McKinley's every night, drank fancy cocktail after fancy cocktail, and wrote away in his book, and it would be strange to see him act any other way.

"I've been busy," Finn told Mercedes.

"I heard about your last fight," she said quietly, her smile fading. "Or lack thereof."

Kurt glanced over at them. "Lack thereof?" he prompted.

Finn sighed. "I —" He caught sight of _him_ suddenly, and his insides dropped. "Fuck," he whispered. Kurt and Mercedes both followed his gaze. Karofsky was here. He sat down at the same table he always took, and Noah Puckerman, Will Shuester, and Quinn Fabray all sat with him.

Quinn Fabray was about the most gorgeous woman Finn had ever lied eyes on. She was dolled up in something silvery and bright tonight, something that was draped over her shoulders and made her look all kinds of ritzy, and she had curled her short hair like all the girls had it these days, and —

— and Puck managed to spot Finn across the club. Puck nodded sharply at him, his expression cold and guarded and with something of a warning in it, and Finn's hand tightened into a fist. He drank the last of his whiskey and then slammed it down on the bar.

"Good luck," Mercedes murmured.

He barely acknowledged her. The whole club seemed louder now. More people were around, talking and laughing and dancing, and the room was hazier with even more smoke. Finn felt a little sick as he approached their table. Quinn's gaze flickered to him for a moment before flickering disinterestedly away again. She lit a cigarette. Finn focused on Karofsky, who eyed him lazily.

"Have a seat, Hudson," he said.

He pulled a chair out and sat. He should have brought a drink with him. "It's good to see you, Mr. Karofsky," he said.

"Is it?" Mr. Karofsky said.

Finn smiled tightly. "Puck," he greeted, nodding at his friend. "Ms. Fabray."

"Mr. Hudson," Quinn said smoothly, looking at her bright red nails.

"Will," Finn said.

"Hello Finn," Will replied, attempting a smile that came out as something else, something sad and pathetic. He looked as if he wanted to say something more, but he eyed Karfosky and kept quiet. Finn hadn't ever know Will Shuester as any different, but he had always thought there must have been a time when Will wasn't such a thin, pale, drip man.

He sure was now, though.

"I heard you didn't fight Langley on Monday," Mr. Karofsky said, drawing Finn's thoughts back to him. He spoke calmly, but Finn didn't what to say. "I go to all the trouble to arrange a good fight for you, and you don't show?" Now there was no edge to his voice. "Sometimes," he continued, "I think you don't _appreciate_ everything I do for you, Hudson." His beady eyes narrowed slightly as he gazed at Finn.

"It's not like that," Finn said quickly. "Langley was twenty pounds heavier than I was. I would've been slaughtered. I thought . . . I thought it would be best not to fight this one. I've got a fight next Wednesday, though, against —"

"_You_ thought it would be best?" Karofsky asked. He looked at Puck. "Is that what he said?"

"That's what he said," Puck echoed, his expression blank.

Sometimes Finn hated Puck — he was the first friend Finn had made in Detroit, but he was also one of Karofsky's fucking goons, and he'd sell out Finn for free tooth paste.

"That's what I thought." Karofsky focused on Finn. "Let me explain something to you, Hudson. I'm not interested in what you _thought_. If you fight, you get paid. It don't matter if you win or lose. It don't matter if you get slaughtered. As long as you're still alive, they pay you. And if they pay you, then you pay me, and everybody's happy.

"You fight, you're paid, _I'm_ paid, and there ain't a reason for you to _think_. You hear me, Hudson?"

"I hear you," Finn said. It was quiet. Quinn blew a ring of smoke.

"Now, I'm a forgiving man," Karofsky finally went on, "which means I'll let this one go."

Finn bit back a visible sigh of relief.

"But next Friday, you fight Benny Reid."

Finn's blood went cold. "Reid's at least _thirty_ pounds —"

"Fifty dollars, Hudson. That's the offer for a fight with Reid. I want that fifty. It'll be what you owe me for this week, with interest, and for next week."

Finn bulked. Even if he _did_ fight, he needed to send some of that money back to Ohio. He hadn't been able to send anything this week, obviously, and his mom _counted_ on that money.

"Is that a problem, Hudson?"

"No," Finn said, feeling like a fucking useless lame-brain. "That ain't a problem."

"Oh, for the love of God, _enough_," Quinn drawled with _almost_ enough conviction to seem as if she might actually care. "I'm _beyond_ bored. Isn't there a show tonight, Shue? Isn't there _something_? I can't take another _minute_ of this awful music. Davie?"

Karofsky looked at Will.

"I, well, actually —" Will stuttered, and Quinn sneered at him, and Finn _really_ needed a drink. "A girl," Will finally said. "She's been by everyday this week asking for an audition. I finally heard her this morning, and she's real good. I told her she could go on tonight." He looked nervously at Karofsky. "I mean, you said the club could use somebody to sing when there weren't any shows, and —"

"Where is she, then?" Karofsky demanded as he lit up his own cigarette.

Will stood quickly, rocking his chair. "I'll tell her to go on right now." He couldn't run away fast enough, and Finn wished he could go with the older man. He shifted uncomfortably.

"You had something to eat yet?" Karofsky asked him.

"Not yet," Finn answered. Maybe this was his chance to leave.

"It's on me, then," Karofsky said, grinning, and Finn wanted to punch someone — just not Benny_ fucking_ Reid. He really _was_ going to get slaughtered. "Mercedes!" Karofsky barked. He had hired a whole host of pretty blonde girls to serve drinks and flirt with men — and they came and went by the week — but the only waitress who ever served Karofsky was Mercedes.

He owned her just like he owned Finn.

Mercedes was at the table in moments, and Finn knew she must have been nearby, watching and listening all along. "Something to eat, Mr. Karofsky?"

The band went silent. There was a collective groan from the audience, but Will called out pleasantly, "Good evening, everyone!" He looked even paler under the stage lights. "McKinley's has a real treat for you tonight. It's my pleasure to introduce Ms. Rachel Berry!"

A handful of people clapped, and Finn would have too if he had been back at the bar with Sam and Kurt. He wasn't, though, _dammit_, so he sat silently as Rachel appeared on stage, her face glowing with anticipation. There were a few murmurs and a little laughter as she went to the center of the stage and the microphone, and Finn felt bad for her. He hoped she really was good, like Will said.

"What is _that_?" Quinn hissed. "It looks like something from my _nightmares_." Karofsky chuckled. Finn pretended not to hear either of them. The band started up again, something different and a little slower and something he vaguely recognised as popular. And then Rachel started to sing.

_"The very thought of you, and I forget to do_, / _The little ordinary things that everyone ought to do _. . ." she sang, her voice sweet and cool and absolutely _amazing. _Will was right.

She could sing.

She could _really_ sing.

_"I'm living in a kind of daydream_, / _I'm happy as a king_, / _And foolish though it may seem_ _Why to me that's everything. . . ."_

People slowly began to dance once more, and conversation started up again, but Finn couldn't look away from her. She had closed her eyes, and she held a hand to her chest, as if she could barely contain herself. She looked so in love with every word that poured out of her.

_"The mere idea of you, the longing here for you_, / _You'll never know how slow the moments go till I'm near to you. . ."_

Finn had never much cared for the shows put on at McKinley's. Once and a while Will would bring in a so-called local celebrity, but Finn was never really impressed, and he found the show girls Karofsky would borrow from Madame Sylvester to be only passingly entertaining. But he would come to that god-forsaken club every night to hear Rachel sing.

_"I see your face in every flower_, / _Your eyes in stars above_, / _It's just the thought of you_ _The very thought of you, my love. . . ." _She opened her eyes, and Finn could swear as she gazed out across the club, she looked at him. _"I see your face in every flower_, / _Your eyes in stars above_, / _It's just the thought of you_ . . . _The very thought of you, my love. . . ."_

As she finished, people clapped and cheered a little, and Rachel beamed that bright, endearing grin, even as she nodded at the band and began to sing another number. "Like her, do you, Finn?" Karofsky asked. Startled, Finn looked over at Karofsky.

"She was good enough, I suppose," Quinn said, saving Finn an answer. "Even if she was _hideous_." Again, Karofsky chuckled, but it seemed to annoy Quinn. "Are you simply going to stand there?" she snapped at Mercedes. "Or are you going to bring me something to eat?"

Mercedes was gone in an instant, sparing the smallest glance for Finn, and Finn realised they all must have ordered without him. He was almost embarrassed, but as he glanced back at Rachel, still up on the stage, still singing some popular song as if it were the song that told the story of everything she knew and loved, she _still_ entranced him.

He had only ever heard a girl sing like that on the radio.

He wondered if she'd be famous someday. She said she would be, didn't she?

"I like her," Puck announced, "the Canary. She can sing." Finn nodded eagerly, glad someone agreed. Karofsky said nothing, but he seemed satisfied as he smoked and his beedy eyes followed Rachel on stage.

And suddenly Finn was positive Rachel ought to find some other club to amaze. She didn't want to wind up in place like this. She didn't want to wind up under Karofsky's thumb. He would know, wouldn't he?

But what could he do?

The next few hours passed slowly.

Karofsky smoked and talked with Quinn and Puck and with various men who walked by and were invited to sit. Finn wanted to slip away _badly_, but he had a feeling this was some sort of penance. He managed to talk a little with Puck about Joe Louis and Henry Amrstrong and the like, but even then he was on edge. When Quinn asked him if he had seen any movies lately, he nearly choked on his tongue. He couldn't talk to her, he just couldn't.

Mostly, he smoked and watched Rachel, and he was _positive_ she smiled at him in particular once or twice, as if to give him the guts to get through one lousy dinner.

"Davie," Quinn finally exclaimed, "you promised you'd take me to a show tonight. Are you or aren't you?" She looked at him petulantly, and he sighed, downing the rest of his drink.

"Sure I am," he replied. "Keep your hair on, kitten." He looked at Puck. "Where's Schue?" Puck nodded and stood, walking off. Moments later, he returned with Will in tow. "Tell your girl to finish with this one," Karofsky said, "and then bring her over here. I'd like to introduce myself."

"Of course," Will said.

Karofsky glanced at the two men he had invited to the table half an hour before. "Have a good night, gentlemen," he said, and both murmured replies before they stood and left. Karofsky glanced at Finn, who, for the first time all night, suddenly _didn't _want to leave.

What if Karofsky tore Rachel to pieces? Finn should be there to defend her. He frowned out his own thoughts. Even if Karofsky did talk down to her, Finn knew he wouldn't have the guts to stand up for her, would he?

But Karofsky didn't ask him to leave, and Finn lit another cigarette, waiting. It would probably be better if Karofsky _did_ rip Rachel right up, and then she would run out of this place and never come back. Rachel finished her song, there was a little applause, and then the band started another song without her.

When Will brought her to the table, her face was flushed pink, her eyes were bright, and her hair was a little mussed. She looked . . . really good. She smiled at Finn. "Hello Mr. Hudson!" she greeted happily, and he found himself unable to answer. His realised his heart was pounding, was _racing,_ like he'd run across the club to see her.

"Ms. Berry, let me introduce Mr. David Karofsky," Will said, a hesitant hand on Rachel's shoulder.

Rachel thrust her hand at Karofsky. "Hello Mr. Karofsky," she said. "I'm Ms. Rachel Berry! It's an absolute pleasure to meet you!"

"Sure, dollface, it's a treat," he replied, and he took her hand.

"And this here is Ms. Quinn Fabrey," Will introduced, "and Mr. Noah Puckerman, and Mr. Finn Hudson." Rachel nodded at each of them sweetly. She looked so _happy_.

"So," Karofsky said, "Ms. Berry, is it?"

"That's right!"

"Where'd you learn to sing like that?"

"I taught myself, actually," she replied. "I took lessons, of course, back in Ohio, but only when I was very young. I practice every day, however."

"And every night, I'd imagine," Quinn said. "It isn't as if you have anyone to take you out." She smirked scornfully. Rachel didn't seem at all bothered, but Finn was. How could someone so pretty be so mean? He knew most of Quinn's story, of course, but when she acted like this it made him doubt how innocent in everything she really was.

"And you'd like a job here, would you?" Mr. Karfosky asked.

"Very much," Rachel assured. Finn could see it, then, could see that she really was anxious despite her beaming, blinding smile. And he felt bad.

"I don't have any regular work for you," Karofsky said. "Except Friday night. I need a Friday night singer."

"I'd love to be your Friday night singer!" Rachel exclaimed eagerly.

Puck grinned a little, apparently amused, and as Puck looked at Rachel, Finn felt his hackles rise.

"There'll be a few conditions," Karofsky said. "First — I want you here every night, in case my other entertainment falls through. If there's no work for you, there's no work. But I want you here every night. And for every night you _do_ work and manage to keep a crowd, I'll pay you . . .," he paused, and then said, as if it were all nothing to him, ". . . five dollars."

Rachel's eyes went wide. "That sounds more than agreeable, Mr. Karofsky." Her words were rushed, as if she were afraid he would change his mind.

"And you'll have to buy a new dress," Karofsky went on. "I don't need a blue-eyed Betty on my stage. Wear something pretty. Something the hard-working guys who come here can apparecaite. Understand? And do something about your hair."

"I . . . yes, okay," Rachel said, and she nodded obediently.

Finn grit his teeth. Karofsky was a jerk. There was nothing wrong with her hair, or with her outfit. It was just . . . different. Karofsky was a jerk, and, worse, Rachel didn't know what she was getting herself into, even if she could see that Karofsky was a big ass. But Finn knew _exactly _what mess she was about to dive headfirst into. Maybe he should talk to her? But what would he say?

"That's that, then," Karofsky said. "Let's go, kitten."

Quinn rose slowly.

Karofsky pushed back his chair, only to pause and glance at Puck. "Come along with us." He always had some goon come along with him wherever he went. Surely he wouldn't want Finn to come, too, though, would he? Finn immediately tried to think of some excuse if Karofsky asked.

But Karofsky didn't even look at Finn as he stood and Quinn took his arm, and Finn took a shaky breath and offered Quinn a poor smile. Finn watched as Karofsky's favourite torpedo, Azimio, joined them at the back door of the club and left with them.

As soon as they were gone, he sank back in his chair, exhausted.

"He's certainly rather intimidating, isn't he?" Rachel asked. Finn turned to her, and She smiled at him, only to pat her hair a little nervously. "What do you think he meant — take care of my hair?" She bit her lip, her smile slipping a little. "I know it's fashionable to have a bob these days, but I've always liked my hair, and —"

"Don't cut it," Finn interrupted. "It's pretty the way it is." He reddened at his own words, and he stumbled to make himself seem like less of a goof. "I mean, bobs are fashionable, sure, but . . . he probably just thought your hair was a little messy, you know, from your hat and all."

"It's not _too_ terribly messy, is it?" she asked, her eyes worried.

"No! No. I wouldn't worry about it. I mean . . . you were great up there," he added, hoping to distract her.

It worked. She visibly brightened. "I was, wasn't I?" She nearly rocked on the balls of her feet, as if she just couldn't contain herself. "It was so wonderful, Mr. Hudson, to be on stage like that!" she gushed. "It's where I belong, the stage! I could _feel_ how right it was! And I have a job, a paying job. Even if I only work on Fridays, that's five dollars a week!"

And he knew, right then, he wouldn't say a word to her about how dirty Karofsky really was.

How could he? It would devastate her, and he knew already he couldn't stand the sight.

He smiled a little. "Come on back to the bar," he invited. "I'll buy you a drink to celebrate." He started to blush at his own brash words again — what about her made him so turned around? — but she only smiled.

"No, Mr. Hudson," she replied, "I'll buy _you_ a drink. I am employed, you know." She grinned and flounced away from the table, and he found himself grinning, too, as he followed her. The crowd had thinned considerably, but they still had to weave their way through all the tables as they crossed the club. By the time they reached the bar, Kurt was waiting for them with a smile playing on his lips.

"Kurt Hummel," he said, holding his hand out to Rachel.

She shook it firmly, which seemed to surprise her, as it had just about everyone Rachel had met. "Rachel Berry," Rachel replied. "Did you enjoy my performance, Mr. Hummel?"

"You can sing, I'll give you that," he said.

"I know," she replied. "I intend to go on Broadway one day."

Finn wondered if she felt the need to announce that to everyone she met.

"Something more to drink, Ms. Berry?" Sam asked.

"Only a soda, please."

"Will we see you around anymore, Rachel?" Kurt asked. "And may I call you Rachel?"

"You may," Rachel said, smiling and accepting her soda. "And, yes, you will see a great deal of me, as Mr. Karofsky's offered me a job as the new Friday night singer." She looked as if she were attempting to rein in her own excitement and appear composed, but she was failing miserably.

"Congratulations," Kurt said, and then he bent over to write something.

"Are you a writer?" she asked him.

"He likes to think he is," Sam told her.

She looked at Finn, who shrugged. "He writes freelance, and the papers pay him sometimes, right, Kurt?"

"That's right," Kurt said.

"It's one of those jobs for now," Finn said, "like we all have."

"Of course," Sam said, "we ain't all gonna go on to bigger and better things like you." He winked at her and poured a drink for someone else. Finn frowned. Sam had his own girl.

"That's not true," Rachel protested, and she addressed Finn. "You could go on to become a professional boxer someday!" She looked as if it would break her heart for him to argue the point.

"Maybe," he said, and she smiled.

"And what about me?" asked Mercedes. She leaned against the bar and rapped her knuckles on the wood until Sam slid her a drink. Finn knew she wasn't supposed to drink here, but who really cared? Karofsky was long gone now. "Am I going to become famous, too, dolly?"

Rachel glanced at Finn. "I —"

"This is Mercedes Jones," he introduced.

"Mercedes likes to interrupt our conversations at random moments," Kurt added, talking as if Rachel had asked the weather, "and then leave as quickly as she comes. Pay her no mind." He took a sip of his Manhattan.

"Mercedes," Finn said, "this is Ms. Rachel Berry. She's the new Friday night singer."

"Nice to meet you," Rachel chirped.

"I heard," Mercedes said. Of course she did. Mercedes heard everything that happened in the club. She tilted her head as she gazed at Rachel, as though appraising her. "You can sing well enough, I suppose, even with that get-up on."

"Thank you, I think," Rachel said. She straightened. "One day I intend to go on Broadway."

Finn smiled into his drink. It really was kind of endearing.

"I heard that, too," Mercedes said dryly. "And what makes you think you're so good? You're not even the only one in this club that can sing, let alone in the States. Yet _you're_ going to be on Broadway." She put a hand on her hip.

"I know it takes more than mere talent," Rachel told her. "It takes both talent and determination, and I happen to have both in spades." She paused. "Can you sing, then, too? We could do a duet together, if you like!" She looked childishly happy. "A personal favourite of mine is —"

"Don't even try," Mercedes interrupted. "Blacks aren't even allowed through that door to watch the shows of pretty little white girls like you, let alone actually stand on the stage. Not in McKinley's, not in any Detroit club."

Finn shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"I'm sorry," Rachel replied, and she seemed genuinely apologetic. Finn thought Rachel had to be the most honestly nice girl he'd ever met. Even Mercedes softened a little at Rachel's words. Rachel went on innocently. "If Mr. Karofsky hates the African American so much, how'd you get a job here?"

Mercedes smiled grimly. "There's one thing Mr. Karofsky hates more than blacks," Mercedes told her, "and that's people he can't trust."

Rachel's brow furrowed, but she seemed to understand after a moment or two. "And he _can_ trust you?" she asked.

"Unfortunately," Mercedes said, and she left, probably at the nod of some paying table. It was quiet. Rachel glanced at Finn and he gave a small smile.

"I suppose I should go," she said. "I have to walk several blocks home."

"Walk?" Finn asked. Was she crazy? "You can't walk. It's past midnight. Take a cab."

"If only I could," she said, sighing. "I'm afraid I don't have the money for such luxuries." She spoke delicately, as if it were improper to talk about money. It probably was. It certainly made everybody uncomfortable, even bright, bubbly Rachel Berry. "I'll be fine," Rachel assured. "Do you have my hat?"

"Here it is," Sam said, and he handed it over. She put it on, arranged it a little, smoothed her dress, and smiled. "Will I see you here tomorrow, Mr. Hudson?"

"Yes," he answered. "But let me walk you home." How could he not offer? She couldn't walk a few blocks in the dark after midnight in _Detroit_, however pleasant she might think the city was. Finn might be unable to protect her from Karofsky, but he could protect her from the rest of the city.

"That's really not necessary," she said.

"I —"

"But if you insist, I'd love your company! Good night, Mr. Evans!"

Sam swallowed a grin and avoided Finn's gaze. "Good Night, Ms. Berry."

Finn grabbed his coat as they left the club, but it wasn't _too_ cold out — it was nearly summer now. The streets were still rather full, so he walked close to Rachel, and her arm constantly brushed his. For a few minutes, it was quiet. His mind began to wander to Benny Reid, but he didn't want to go there. He focused on Rachel. "How long have you been in Detroit, Ms. Berry?"

"Only a few months. I came with a little cash from my father in March. And you — you can call me Rachel, if you want." She smiled shyly at him.

"You can call me Finn, then," he said, "if you'd like, I mean."

"I'd like that very much . . . Finn," she replied, and his insides turned with a swooping sensation. There was something so endearing about Rachel. He really wanted her to like him; he really wanted to make her smile that wide, beaming smile at her. And, Jesus, could she sing.

"How long have _you_ been in Detroit, Finn?" she asked

"Six years this month," he said. "I came after I finished school."

She nodded. The street was emptier now. "Do you . . . do you have a girl?" she asked. She didn't look at him.

"No," he admitted. "Never really had one." Again, it was quiet. "You want a ciggy?" he offered. Silence made him uncomfortable.

"No, thank you," she said. "I believe smoking may be detrimental to one's voice, and I have to take care of my voice above all else. Mr. Hudson — Finn — do you really like my hat?" She stopped and turned to face him.

His eyes went wide. He didn't know what to say. She looked away, biting her lip, and she crossed her arms, as if to cradle herself a little. "I know I'm not pretty like some girls — like Ms. Fabray — and I don't wear the dresses that are all the rage, but I . . ." She shrugged.

"That takes something, though," he supplied quickly. She looked back up at him. "I mean, to dress like the girls in magazines and all that, well, it only takes a pocket of rubes, right? But to — to wear your own style and all, that takes something. Guts, I mean." Did he ever make any sense at all?

But Rachel smiled hesitantly. "Do you really think so?"

"Sure," he said. It _did_ take guts to wear that hat. "It's like you dress like . . . you. That's good, I think. So, you know, I like your hat, 'cause it's _your_ hat, and I like you."

She beamed, then, and she looked so cute that the sudden wish bowled him over: he wanted to kiss her. He barely even knew her, and there wasn't a chance she wanted a thing to do with a crumb like him, but he couldn't help it. She tucked a loose lock of hair behind her ear as they continued down the street, and she began to sing under her breath. He tried to think of something good to say. He came up blank.

She paused and turned to him once again. "This is my house," she said. "My landlady, Mrs. Baxter, left the light on for me, see? She's a sweetheart. She makes great blueberry pudding, too."

"I love blueberry pudding," Finn said.

"Me, too," Rachel replied. She took a quick breath, and there was something in her gaze as she looked at him. "You know," she breathed, "you can kiss me if you want to."

He was startled by her words. But he replied despite himself. "I want to."

She leaned up, and he leaned down, and he wasn't sure this was actually happening, but her warm breath washed over his lips as he paused, and when her eyes flickered closed, he couldn't hold out any longer. He pressed his lips softly to hers. Her small hands gripped his arms, as his own hands settled on her waist, so tiny, and he opened his mouth, only to have her mouth open, too.

He had to bite back a moan, and he pulled back slightly. Her eyes were glazed. "I should go," he murmured. "But I'll . . . I'll see you tomorrow at McKinley's."

"Yes," she said, as if a little dazed. He stepped back. He wanted to step closer. He wanted to kiss her until her legs gave out, and then he would carry her into that little house and up into her room and — but she was _not_ that kind of girl. He didn't want her to be.

So he stepped back.

"Good night, Finn," she said, and she finally turned away to go into the house. She opened the door quietly and glanced back with half a smile. He smiled, too, and, her cheeks flushed, she disappeared into the house.

Slowly, he started the trek to his own apartment. The last girl he'd kissed was Santana, and it was nothing like that. He touched his lips briefly and glanced back down the street at her house. Had he really met her only a few hours ago?

He felt like it had been ages.

And he was sure it would feel like ages before he could kiss her again.

**tbc**

_a/n: review? The next chapter should be up within the next week or two (hopefully sooner!). Work right now is kind of like a tennis racket smacking me repeatedly in the face for eight hours straight, so writing has kind of taken a backseat lately, but things will be back on track in another week or so, and I hope to have regular updates every few days after that. The story is all mapped out, as I said._**  
**


	2. Chapter 2

Finn spent the afternoon at the gym.

He told Bieste that Karofsky wanted him to fight Benny Reid, and she looked at him with disbelief. "Are you pulling my leg, Hudson?" she asked. She tried to refuse to help him, but he begged and begged until she sighed and gave in. She was the best trainer in Detroit, and he needed her help every day for the next week if he wanted half a chance against Reid.

He couldn't focus on anything, though, and each passing hour Beiste grew more and more frustrated. It wasn't his fault. He hadn't been able to sleep either. He hadn't been able to do anything but think of Rachel. She would be at the club tonight, and he would see her, and — and what?

He had only known her a day, but somehow she had him all turned around.

"That's enough," Bieste finally declared. "Get out of here. And if you decide to come back tomorrow, you better _want_ to be here." She glared at him. He nodded pathetically, wiped himself off, and headed towards McKinley's.

He stopped in the street, though, as his stomach sank.

He couldn't go to McKinley's all sweaty like some sort of rag-a-muffin. What would Rachel think?

Should he go back to his apartment and wash up? Put on something nice, maybe? He could already see the smirk on Sam's face, though, and the gleam in Kurt's eye. And Mercedes would say something. They would all know.

Who cared if they knew?

Oh, right — _he_ cared. They would razz him, _mercilessly,_ and then they would warn him. They would tell him what he already knew — it wasn't any kind of good idea to start something with a broad he'd only met the day before, not for him, and not for her, either. He frowned.

He would go to McKinley's, like always.

Nodding, he continued down the street. McKinley's was only six blocks from the gym, and he was there within minutes. Sam greeted him with a nod, and Finn slipped into a seat beside Kurt. "You smell very fragrant today," Kurt observed.

"You have ink on you nose," Finn replied.

Kurt's hand leapt immediately to his face, and he looked around wildly. "Excuse me," he said, and he hurried off, hand still half-covering his face. Sam shook his head at Finn, who only grinned and took his drink.

"Karofsky around?" Finn asked, and he turned in his seat to face the rest of the club. It was crowded already, even though it was barely past six, but that wasn't surprising — Madame Sylvester always let her girls go on and give a show on Saturday nights, and Finn was sure half of Detroit — the lesser half — came out to see them.

"Not yet," Sam answered.

"He'll be here in an hour or two," Puck said, walking up from a table, "if you want to hide in the john." He sat down beside Finn. "Highball, Evans," he told Sam.

Finn glared at Puck. "Did you know he wanted me to fight Reid?" he asked. He tended to let most thing Puck did slide, but he couldn't help this one. "You could have said something — told him it wasn't a good idea."

"Wouldn't have made a difference, Hud, you know that." Sam slid him a drink as Puck offered Finn a sympathetic shrug.

"You still could have said something," Finn muttered. "Reid's gonna kill me."

"He'll get a few good punches in and that'll be it, you damn broad. Cool it. Everything's Jake."

Finn glared again and downed the rest of his drink. Sometimes he really hated Puck.

"That's a rather silly expression, don't you think?"

Rachel.

Finn turned in his seat, even as Puck did the same, and his heart went into overdrive. Rachel had curled her hair and pinned it up in some sort of fancy twist, and she had on some loose, long red gown that, as she sat delicately in the seat beside Finn and asked Sam for an Orange Blossom, Finn saw had practically no back. There was only a soft, enticing stretch of skin.

_Sweet Jesus_.

"If it isn't my favourite little Canary," Puck greeted, grinning. He leaned toward Finn and murmured under his breath, wriggling his eyebrows, "Now _there_'s a dish." Finn kind of wanted to punch Puck. Rachel, however, didn't hear Puck's comment or notice his lecherous expression.

"It's Mr. Puckerman, isn't it?" Rachel said. "How are you?"

"Swell," Puck said. "And call me Puck, doll."

But her gaze was already on Finn. "And you, Finn? How are you?" She caught his eye, and she seemed so happy and excited and eager.

"I'm fine, Rachel," he replied, trying not to make a fool of himself. He was bound to, though, especially when she was so close, and she smelled so good, and her arm brushed his. "What about you?" he asked. "You — you look real nice." He smiled.

"Thank you! I went right out this morning and bought a new dress for my new job." She paused. "You like it, then?" She tilted her head and bit her lip and he couldn't really come with a response at all, let alone a good one.

Finally he nodded and offered another smile, and she beamed and accepted her drink from Sam.

"So, Ms. Berry, where're you from?" Puck asked.

"Ohio," she said. "A small town, actually, called Lima, and, truth be told, it's an absolutely terrible place. My father was an attorney, and he always said the worst mistake he ever made was to return to his hometown after he earned his degree. His mother was sick, though, and he felt he really didn't have a choice. He needed to be there for her last years. He was as excellent a son as he was a father. Anyway, I knew from my first conscious moments in this world that I wanted nothing more than to escape Lima and go somewhere much more exciting."

Finn smiled.

"Just 'I'm from Ohio' would have worked, too, babe," Puck said, chuckling.

"I like to be expansive," Rachel replied, unperturbed. "Where you are from, Mr. Puckerman?"

"Apple," he said.

Rachel gasped. "New York?" she squealed, and she looked so thrilled Finn thought she might fall out of her seat. "Why did you ever leave? It's the only place I've ever wanted to be!"

"Trust me," Puck said, "it ain't all that great. Travel around for long enough, and you'll realise all 'em cities are the same. Not a difference in the world between New York and Detroit. Ain't that right, Sammy?"

Sam glanced over. "I suppose," he said. He shrugged.

Frowning, Rachel start to protest. "I don't know if I —" And then her eyes went wide. "— I love this song!" she declared. She jumped down to her feet. "Dance with me, Finn, please?" She clapped her hand together as if she meant to beg.

"I — I don't know," he said, slightly alarmed. He couldn't dance to save his life.

"Oh, _please_? I bet you dance just lovely! Boxers have to possess grace, don't they?"

"I mean, I actually, I can't much dance at all," he said sadly.

"I'll dance with you, babe," Puck volunteered. "That one dances like a gimp, anyhow."

Finn hated Puck. There wasn't any _sometimes_ about it.

"Oh — can you — can you do the Lindy Hop, Mr. Puckerman?" Rache asked hesitantly.

"The Lindy Hop?" Puck replied. "Who do I look like? Shorty Snowden? You want to dance, sweetheart, I'll show you a dance." He stood, reaching for Rachel, and Finn couldn't help it.

"Can you teach me the Lindy Hop?" Finn asked, stepping in front of Puck.

Rachel beamed. "Of course!" She took his hand, hers so small in his, and Finn didn't have time even to glance at Sam or Puck. "It's really very easy," Rachel insisted as she led him out onto the dance floor. She squeezed his hand and smiled encouragingly, but he only shook his head at her.

"There isn't a dance in this world easy enough for me," he replied.

Maybe he _should_ have let Puck dance with her.

"I don't believe that," Rachel dismissed. "And the Lindy Hop's a bang, I promise. Now stand there, and take my hand," she said, and he glanced around nervously, wishing there were even fewer folks around. It was bad enough that he was about to make a fool of himself in front of her.

Rachel smiled at him, however, and he couldn't help but smile back. "As the lead, you step like this — step, step, triple step, step, step, triple step," she instructed, and he tried to follow suit. "Perfect!" she crooned, and he blushed.

"Now with numbers," she went on, "it's like this — one, two, and three and four, five, six, and seven and eight! See! Simple!" He tried to follow, but it wasn't _nearly_ as simple as she claimed. Still, she nodded happily at him. "Very good," she said. "So, you take my hand, lightly, like this — yes! — and I'll swing around like this — it's called a swing out, actually, and —"

This was really hard.

"And step back, yes, and then step in, and to the left, to the left! Step in to the _left_! And —"

He could swear he heard Puck laughing, but he tried to focus on Rachel. When he started to spin, he stumbled slightly, and he inadvertently tugged her into him, She let out a little huff of air as she hit him. "Sorry!" he exclaimed, heat rushing to his face.

She only giggled, however. "There's simply so much of you!" she exclaimed. He wanted to disappear on the spot, but he glanced down at her to see her gazing up at him, and he couldn't believe her expression: she looked as if she thought he were absolutely _amazing_. Had she met him?

"We'll simply have to practice!" she went on. "Again, now from the start." And she clasped his hand lightly with hers. "Step back —"

He managed to turn properly this time, but then he stepped forward instead of backward, and she tripped slightly, once more falling into him. He began to apologise again, but she pressed her face slightly until his arm, laughing once more. "One more try!" she said happily.

He stepped back, and he stepped into the left, and then he turned, and his hand touched the bare skin of her back, and he nearly had it, and — and he tripped over his own feet and fell into some man, Rachel tumbling on top of Finn. Finn stepped back and apologised, mortified, to the man, who took his girl and stalked off.

Finn looked at Rachel and was taken aback again at the look on her face.

She looked as if she were ready to burst from laughter.

"That wasn't funny," he said.

And she giggled, clasping a hand to her mouth. "One more try?" she finally asked, holding out her hand. But the music changed, and they both paused. She bit her lip. "I guess not," she said. "But that wasn't so bad, was it?" she asked.

"Yes," he said firmly, "it _was_."

She tried, and failed, to stifle more laughter.

But he didn't mind, actually. He thought maybe he was growing addicted to the sound.

"How about this, then? A simple old two-step?" And stepping close to him, she placed a hand on his shoulder. His hand slid around to her waist. The material of her dress was soft and his hand relaxed slightly on her hip.

"I think I can handle this," he replied softly.

She smiled shyly. "I think you can, too. You dance very well, actually." That was a lie if ever there were one, but she seemed to slide a little closer, and she smelled good, he realised, so insanely good, like some sort of flower or something, and it made his head feel fuzzy.

"Tell me, Finn, do you like movies?"

"Sure," he said.

"Have you seen _It Happened One Night_? With Clark Gable?"

"No," he said. He hadn't even heard of it. "Not yet."

"I've heard it's absolutely wonderful," Rachel said, "and real romantic, too. It's about this girl and guy who fall in love in one adventurous night." She paused, and she gazed at him intently. "Do you think you can fall in love with someone in one night?"

He swallowed thickly. He couldn't take his eyes away from hers. "Yes," he said.

She looked away shyly. "Me, too." It was quiet. "Anyway, I really want to see it. _It Happened One Night_, I mean." She gazed back up at him.

"I — I could take you, if you like," he offered.

"Oh, yes, I'd love that!" she assured, her eyes sparkling. He wondered what would happen if he kissed her again. His eyes flickered to her lips, to those big, beautiful lips.

The music stopped.

And all of the sudden the whole club began to shout and clap and stomp their feet. Finn finally pulled his gaze from Rachel and looked around to see that the club had grown crowded and hazy with smoke; all the tables were full, and all eyes were up on stage. They came out in a line, all dolled up and dancing, the best of Madame Sylvester's girls.

"Oh, goodness," Rachel said.

"That's the regular Saturday night show," Finn said.

"They're rather good, aren't they?"

He shrugged. "C'mon," he said, and this time he took her hand.

He led her back to the bar, and Sam slid them both what remained of their drinks. "You looked real smooth out there, Finn," Sam said, grinning. Finn glared at him. Puck was gone, he noted, surely to Karofsky's table. Maybe he, at least, hadn't seen anything.

"I was certainly astounded," Kurt added dryly.

"He does have real talent, doesn't he?" Rachel asked brightly, apparently under the impression that both men spoke genuinely. Finn smiled at her, but Kurt looked at her as if she were crazy. She returned her own gaze to the stage, however, and Finn watched, too as Kurt began to write something or other in his notebook.

"They're good," Rachel repeated slowly, "but they're very . . . _provocative_, aren't they?"

Finn wasn't entirely sure he knew what that meant.

"That's their whole act," Kurt said. "Sex sells. Isn't that right, 'Cedes?"

"That's right," Mercedes said, and she nodded hello at Finn as she leaned against the bar. "And nobody sells it better than Sylvester." She glanced distastefully up at the stage and the crowd of men hollering all across the club. After a moment, she turned her gaze on Rachel. "You don't look too bad yourself, princess," she said.

"Thank you, I think," Rachel replied. "Do they perform often? Every Saturday?" She looked at Finn.

"Just about," Mercedes answered. "Some clubs have got sophistication, some have sports, some have glamour. We've got money and power here, with a little glamour thrown in for kicks." She sighed.

"And _that_'s glamorous?" Rachel asked, frowning.

"No," Mercedes replied, and she seemed amused now. "That's money and power. Or what money and power likes, anyway. And Mr. Karofsky'll do anything for the money. I think McKinley's makes less now since Prohibition ended, you know. That's how it goes, I guess. Mr. Karofsky doesn't like that. He wants people in them chairs again, even if it takes showgirls. Or a crazy little Jew like you."

"A crazy little Jew like me?"

"He didn't hire you 'cause he wanted to look at you himself," Mercedes replied matter-of-factly. "He hired you 'cause he thought you'd bring a crowd with that voice, and maybe with a nice two dollar dress, too."

Rachel blushed slightly, and Finn had to come to her defence. "You're the glamour, Rachel," he said. "Because you're — you're talented and all, and glamorous and all." He sounded like a fool, and he pretended not to feel Mercedes's appraising gaze, not as Rachel rewarded him with a soft smile.

"But how do you know I'm a Jew?" she asked Mercedes.

"Sweetheart," Kurt said, actually setting down his pen, "have you ever _looked_ in a mirror?"

"If you mean my nose," Rachel said, straightening as if he had presented a challenge, "I'll have you know that such facial features add character, and an aspiring star can never have too much character."

Mercedes grinned. "You know, girl, I kind of like you."

Rachel smiled. "I'm glad to hear it," Rachel replied. Mercedes ruffled Kurt's hair — "_Mercedes!_" — and left, and Rachel sipped her Orange Blossom as she watched the showgirls on stage. Finn watched quietly, too, and he spied Karofsky, Quinn, and Puck at their usual table. Quinn looked even more bored than usual.

"Tell me about boxing," Rachel said suddenly, focusing on Finn. "I don't know a thing about it." She smiled eagerly. He wasn't sure what there was to say, but he tried to explain the basics to her. She asked lots of questions, constantly interrupting him, and she shocked him with her final declaration that he had to teach her as payment for his dance lessons.

Sam laughed. "You want something to eat, Ms. Berry?" he asked.

"Yes, please," Rachel said brightly.

Mercedes appeared a half hour or so later with food and told them it was on the house. "Thank you!" Rachel said, beaming. Finn said nothing. Food and drinks were always on the house for the handful of people in McKinley's that paid Karofsky in other ways, Finn included.

He didn't want Rachel to be one of those people.

He didn't want Karofsky to consider Rachel one of his _assets_.

But Rachel was happy, and she chattered away about the various dances she knew and liked and about music and her favouties and then about Bette Davis and "Oh, she's absolutely _superb_ in _Of Human Bondage. _Did you see that? Do you think you could ever be bonded to another person like that? I sure hope if I were, it'd be to the right sort of person. . . ."

He nodded and smiled and added a word or two in edgewise, and now and again Sam or Kurt added something, too. When Madame Sylvester's girls finally danced off stage, Rachel clapped politely, which made Finn choke back a chuckle, and then she said brightly, "Do you think they want me to go on now?"

"It's kinda late, isn't it?" he asked.

"It's never too late for a show!" Rachel exclaimed. "I'll go find Mr. Karofsky — in fact, I see him right there!" Before anyone could say another word, she hurried off. He watched her go, smiling a little despite that Puck pulled out a chair for her at Karofsky's table. His eyes were still on her when someone else came to stand beside him.

"Lost in thought?" she asked.

Finn looked over, and found Santana there, smirking.

"Santana," he greeted quietly, turning to face the bar again.

"Hot Toddy, blondie," she barked at Sam, before she leaned against the bar, and faced Finn again, her expression melting into something dark and sly and seductive. "Enjoy the show, Mr. Hudson?" she asked, smirking devilishly and placing a hand on his knee.

He jerked away from her, because what if Rachel saw? Besides, Santana made him feel dirty. A night with her was never enough to make up for how he felt the next morning.

"You might want to consider a new routine," Kurt suggested idly from a few seats down, and Santana turned her eyes on him, for which Finn was grateful. "If you'd like my opinion, that is."

"Perhaps you'd like to join us on stage, Mr. Hummel," Santana said, her lip curling. "I'm sure we have a spare get-up for you. And you'd like to wear that and dance around for all the boys to see, wouldn't you?"

Finn stared at his glass. He knew what Santana meant to imply, and he knew that Kurt wasn't, well, he didn't go for girls — he was a complete fruit, honestly — but Finn tried to do the same as Sam and Puck and even Kurt and to pretend it wasn't worth a conversation. Santana, though, she always liked to make everyone uncomfortable.

"I mean," Santana went on, "a little three-letter man like you —"

Finn choked on his drink.

And Rachel returned. "That's my seat," she announced, cutting Santana off.

Santana turned to Rachel, and everyone was quiet. "Rachel, right?" Santana asked, tilting her head slightly. Finn suddenly wished Santana would simply walk away, because nothing good could come of Santana talking to Rachel.

"I'd prefer Ms. Berry, actually," Rachel said, her voice pleasant yet somehow cold. "You must be one of Madame Sylvester's showgirls. That was a very racy performance you gave. It certainly had a kind of style, though." She smiled tightly. "Do you mind?" She reclaimed her seat beside Finn.

"Another Orange Blossom, doll?" Sam asked Rachel kindly, even as he slid Santana her Toddy.

"Orange Blossom?" Santana snorted.

"I'll try something else," Rachel said gamely. "How about an Applejack?"

Sam nodded. Rachel glanced at Finn and he smiled. But Santana was still there.

"So, what's your story, anyway?" she asked, and she leaned in close to Rachel. Finn almost wanted to wrap an arm around Rachel and tug her away from Santana.

They were opposites, Rachel and Santana. That wasn't a great discovery, sure, but the comparison was painfully obvious now. Santana stood smirking cruelly in her tight, short outfit, with her breasts pouring out one end and too much leg coming out of the other, and Rachel sat in her cute, ginchy little dress, her eyes large and innocent, her brow furrowed slightly in puzzlement.

"My story?" Rachel repeated. Finn watched her carefully. Maybe her chipper chatter would chase Santana away. "Well, I'm from a small town in Ohio called Lima, and —"

"Not that," Santana dismissed. "I've heard all of . . . _that_. What's your _real_ story?" She leaned even closer, as if she knew Rachel had a secret that she couldn't help but share. "The dirty details."

"I don't have any dirty details to share," Rachel said, even polite pleasantry gone from her voice. "I'm from Ohio, and I came to Detroit to save up enough money to go to New York and start my career on Broadway. That's it. That's my story."

"Why now, then?" Santana pushed. "Why leave Mommy and Daddy when money's short and try to make it _now_? Sure you don't have something you'd like to share? A little secret?"

"Absolutely not," Rachel snapped, "and if you don't mind, I find your uncouth manner rather irritating, and I would appreciate it if you would, at the very least, respect my personal space." She glared fiercely at Santana, and Finn was a little shocked. He had never seen Rachel like this, and it was strange, never mind that he had only known her a day.

Santana only smiled. "If that's true, baby doll, you might want to find another club to serenade. There ain't a soul in this old place that doesn't have more than few secrets, and they'll break your innocent little heart. Jones has as many secrets as she has sass, and little Ms. Fabray has her own dirty little secrets, and what about the boys? What about sweet Mr. Evans, and oh, you, too, isn't that right, Mr. Hudson?"

Her eyes dove to Finn. "Have you told Ms. Berry _your_ story yet, Finny?"

He wanted to pop her, girl or no.

"That'll be a nickel, Lopez," Sam said abruptly. Everyone looked at him. "For your drink," he added coolly, his mouth a thin line.

Santana glanced at each of them, at Kurt's hard expression and Finn's pinched face and Rachel's cold gaze, and she chuckled. "You're all too cute," she said, and she tossed a nickel at Sam. "I'll be seeing you," she said.

She started to walk away, and her hand lifted to brush Finn's shoulder, but Rachel caught her wrist suddenly. Rachel stood, stepping so close to to Santana that Finn's body was pressed to hers. "We all have dirty secrets, _baby doll_," she whispered, "that's why we love to know that other people have them, too, as if somehow makes ours less terrible." Rachel's nose nearly brushed Santana's temple as she spoke in a low hiss. "But I wouldn't flounce around this club as if you own it, or maybe someone's secret past will come back to haunt _you_."

She released Santana suddenly, and her face was icy as Santana glared at her. But Santana said nothing; she only walked away.

And Rachel returned to her seat. She took a sip of her Applejack. "This is very sweet," she noted, "maybe _too _sweet. I think I like Orange Blossoms better." She smiled lightly at Sam.

"What did you say to her?" Kurt asked, incredulous. "I've never seen Santana walk away without the last word!" He looked positively thrilled, and his pen was poised over his book.

Rachel shrugged. "I told her to mind her own business, is all," she replied. Kurt stared for a slow moment and then nodded and started to write something furiously. "I found Mr. Karofsky," Rachel told Finn, turning to him. "He liked my dress!"

Finn wasn't sure that was such a good thing.

"Anyway, he said I could go home, as long as I was here by seven tomorrow night. Walk me home?" She smiled sweetly, and he wondered if maybe she _hadn't_ actually threatened Santana in that icy voice only a few moments before.

"Sure," he said, and he stood. Her hand slipped into his, as if it were a routine. He helped her into her sweater at the door, and they stepped outside. It was bright out under all the city lights, and they walked quietly for a few minutes. But he felt like he _had_ to say something about. . . . "You sure told Santana," he tried hesitantly.

"Santana? Is that the showgirl's name? If she can even be considered a true member of the show community." Rachel scrunched her nose up in disgust, and Finn found that kind of adorable. He was pretty sure he found most things she did adorable.

He nodded. "Santana Lopez," he said.

"I merely meant to make it clear that she didn't intimidate me," Rachel said. She squared her shoulders. "I don't like to be bullied." Finn smiled despite himself. She was something else. And, he realised, she hadn't said anything about the secrets Santana had implied Finn kept.

Should he say something? Maybe it would be better to . . . ? But, no, it wouldn't do anyone any good, least of all Rachel.

"When do you want to take me to the movies, then?" Rachel asked, dragging his thoughts away from all of _that_.

"When do you want to go?" he said. "Tomorrow night?"

She shook her head. "I can't," she said. "I have to be at McKinley's — just in case, remember? We could go some afternoon, maybe tomorrow, but that wouldn't be much like a date, would it?" She looked thoughtful, frowning a little.

"So . . . it's a date, then?" he asked softly.

She glanced at him quickly, only to glance away just as quickly. "I'd thought so," she admitted. "I like you very much, Finn. I've never met anybody like you before."

He tried not to turn _too_ red. Honestly, he was a bumbling, blushing sap around her. "I like you, too," he said. "And it — it should be a real date — at night and everything. How about . . . how about next Saturday? McKinley's will never need you on a Saturday. Madame Sylvester's girls'll always go on then."

"Oh, yes, that would work perfectly!" Rachel exclaimed.

Finn puffed out his chest a little proudly at his suggestion. "Next Saturday, then," he said. "I'll take you out to the movies. Dinner, too." He glanced down, and he could see her smiling softly to herself. He grinned. It was quiet for a few blocks, and it was actually kind of nice.

"Tell me about your home," she said. "Before you came to Detroit, I mean."

"Home?" he said. He shrugged. "I'm from Grand Rapids, or thereabouts." When she didn't say anything, he hesitantly went on. "My old man worked in this big factory just down the street from our house, and I used to wait for him to get out every night when I was real little. Like, I'd sit on the porch, and when the horn sounded, I'd run down to meet him. And all his friends would say 'There's your boy, Chris,' and it always made me so proud that I was his kid."

"That's sweet," Rachel said, and she leaned a little into his arm.

"Yeah," he said, nodding. "He died, though, in the war. I was still a kid. It was just me and my ma after that. We got along well enough. I didn't want to end up in that old factory, too, though, so I came here. And, anyway, Ma sent word a few years ago that they shut it down."

"I'm sorry," she said, "about your father, I mean." Again, it was quiet. "My daddy died just last year, and I miss him every day."

"I'm sure he's real proud of you," Finn said softly.

"And your father of you," Rachel said, and she smiled.

Finn wasn't so sure about that; in fact, he was pretty positive that proud was the _last_ thing his pops would be now if he could see the life Finn led. But he wouldn't tell Rachel that.

They reached her little house. And she turned to face him. "Thank you for walking me home," she said. "I feel so safe with you around." She gazed at him through her eyelashes, and he wondered if that was his cue, if that meant he could kiss her again, 'cause God knows he sure wanted to — the want made him weak in the knees.

She bit her lip, and she stepped a little closer to him, resting her hands on his chest.

And he leaned down and kissed her. His hands gripped the sides of her face, his fingers tracing over her soft hair, and he felt as if he were drowning in her. She smiled into his lips, even as his tongue darted out and slipped into her open mouth. She tasted so good, and he could feel her fingers tightening around fistfuls of his shirt, and he kissed her harder.

When she pulled back, he pressed one soft, lingering kiss to the corner of her mouth. "I'll see you tomorrow night," he breathed. He smiled slightly. "Orange Blossom's on me."

She smiled softly, too, and nodded, and he waited to leave until she had made it onto the porch and opened the front door. But as he walked away, he glanced back, and he saw her leaning against the door-frame, her hands clutched together and held to her chest as she smiled and tilted her head back, eyes closed.

She looked so swept away, so thoroughly kissed, so _happy_, and he didn't think he'd ever made a person that happy before. He'd never _wanted_ to make a person that happy before. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he grinned and started the trek back to McKinley's.

He would see her tomorrow night, and every night next week, and then he'd take her out on Saturday.

The further he walked from her house, though, the more his elation drifted away. He thought of Santana, and he frowned a little at the half-empty street. What good could come of any of this? She listened to him, sure, and she made him smile, and she made him feel better than he had in ages. And the very idea of a date with her made something swoop inside him. And her kisses_, Jesus_, he was already nuts about them.

He was already nuts about _her_.

But it couldn't really last. She would have to leave for New York eventually, and there was no way he'd ever make it out of Detroit, or even away from McKinley's. And what if Rachel left him? It might not be much now, but if he grew close to her and she up and left. . . . Or worse, what if she _didn't_ want to leave him, and she ended up like Mercedes, stuck in McKinley's when she could have so much better but for some boy?

He sighed.

When he sank into a seat at the bar, Kurt was still there, and he leaned on his hand as he faced Finn. "She's pretty, Ms. Berry, isn't she?" Kurt asked, and his eyes were knowing. Finn pretended they weren't. He only shrugged.

"Give me something strong, Sam."

* * *

He could barely see through the rain.

The little drops pelted the ground — and him — and it was cold rain, no less. His raincoat did nothing for him, and when he finally pushed his way into the tiny wayside diner, he was soaked through. There was almost no one around, though, and the few people who were didn't even bother to glance his way.

The broad behind the counter was too focused on the man trying to flirt with her, and the older couple by the window had eyes only for their breakfast. There was one man in a corner, drinking coffee and staring out the window. He frowned slightly — was this his man? He didn't actually have any information on the informant's appearance.

He glanced quickly around the rest of the diner one more time, and he spied another man in a back booth. This one was much younger, dressed meticulously with not a hair out of place, and he was sipping tea as he read the papers. That _had_ to be him, Blaine just knew.

He crossed the diner quickly and slipped into a seat at the booth.

The man didn't look up from his paper.

"Mr. Green?" Blaine asked quietly.

One eyebrow rose on the man's forehead, and his eyes lazily glanced up to look at Blaine. "Mr. Black, I presume?" he asked.

"That's right," Blaine replied, nodding.

Slowly, the informant folded up his newspaper. "Were you followed?" he asked.

"Nope," Blaine said, "and I drove all around town, just as you wanted. Sorry I'm late, by the way. After I drove just about everywhere, I had trouble finding the place. I guess that's the point, though, right? To pick a place in the middle of no where, and all?" He smiled, but his informant only eyed him blankly. He cleared his throat. "Mr. Green —"

"If you weren't followed, and we really are alone, you can call me Mr. Hummel. Or Kurt, if you prefer." He offered the smallest of smiles and took a sip of his tea.

"Okay, Kurt," Blaine said. "Please feel free to call me Mr. Anderson, or Blaine, if you like, whatever makes you most comfortable." It was quiet. "Do you have the information?" he finally asked.

"I'm afraid I didn't bring it today, actually," Kurt said, stirring his tea.

Blaine frowned. "But I thought —"

"I told you over the horn that I had everything you would need to put Karofsky in the pen for life. I have every story, all the details of each backhanded deal and hidden murder. I even have the whereabouts of evidence, and I know witnesses for nearly every case." He paused, as if to stress his point. "I have it _all_."

"Yes," Blaine said. "You told me. I thought we meant to meet today in order to —"

"I only wanted to meet you today," Kurt interrupted. "I wanted to see if I could trust you. That's all." Again, it was quiet, and Blaine didn't know quite what to do. Usually when he talked to informants, they were nervous and jittery, and they generally wanted to toss the information his way and flee. If that wasn't the case, then they were greedy fellows out to make a deal.

He had never had a calm, collected informant like Kurt Hummel before. How should he . . . ?

"Look, Kurt — Mr. Hummel, I understand your hesitance, I do."

"I really don't think you do," Kurt replied.

"Maybe I don't," Blaine offered honestly. "But I thought you wanted to see Karofsky go down as much as I do." He tried to find some sort of tell in Kurt's expression, but there was nothing. "I can help you take him down, Kurt. I can. And you can trust me. You _have_ to trust me. Together, we can lock up Karofsky and all his goons for good."

"No," Kurt said sharply, "only Karofsky. No one else."

"I —"

"You assured me," Kurt said, "you _promised_ me. You said that you could protect everyone else. If I told you want I know, if I told you what you _needed_ to know, then you could keep everyone else involved safe — even the men who work for him."

Blaine wasn't sure what to say. "The men who work for Karfosky are as bad as he is, Kurt. Take Mr., ah, Mr. —" He reached into his raincoat and pulled out his notes. He skimmed over them quickly and glanced back at Kurt. "Take Mr. Noah Puckerman," he said. "You mentioned him on the phone. Did you know he's a suspect for _several _murders, Kurt?"

"This isn't about Puckerman," Kurt dismissed.

"And, well, what about that Boxer — Finn Hudson? You mentioned him as well, and I've looked into him, and it's pretty clear that he —"

"Finn hasn't hurt anyone," Kurt insisted.

Blaine bit back a protest. "Okay, what about this new singer, Rachel Berry? I made some calls to Ohio, and it turns out that she —"

Abruptly, Kurt stood. "I think we're finished here, Mr. Black," he said icily. "Don't expect another call from me." He picked up his coat and began to shrug it on. Blaine bit back a curse. He couldn't let Kurt walk away.

"Mr. Hummel — Mr. Green — _Kurt_ — I'm sorry if I —"

And Kurt paused, stared hard, and then leaned forward, his palms flat on the table and his face disconcertingly close to Blaine.

"I'm only going to say this once," he whispered. "I'm not doing this for me. I'm not risking _everything_ for me. It's for them. For my friends. For the people I think of as family. Sure, they've made mistakes. Sure, they're tied up in all this because of their own crimes. But they've paid for their sins twice over, and I won't see them fall with Karofsky.

"If you _can't_ promise me that as you have before, then tell me now, and I'll find another way to handle the situation."

Slowly, Blaine nodded. "We won't touch anyone but Karofsky," he said. "You have my word."

Kurt stood straight, took a slow breath, and finally, to Blaine's relief, sat back down. "There isn't a crime in this city that Karofsky doesn't have a hand in," he said. "But it'll be impossible to touch him from any way but the inside. Every witness to every crime is under his thumb, and every piece of hidden evidence will hurt each of them as much as it would hurt him."

"And we don't want to hurt them," Blaine said.

"That's right," Kurt replied.

"Then what . . . ?" Blaine paused. "How, exactly, Mr. Hummel, do you want this to go? Clearly, you aren't simply going to hand over the information you have. What do you want me to do, then?"

"I have a plan," Kurt said. He took another sip of tea and frowned. "My tea's gone cold." He sighed.

"A plan?" Blaine prompted. "Which is?"

"I can't give you all the details yet," Kurt said.

"Then what _can_ you tell me?" Blaine asked. He couldn't take much more of this.

Kurt eyed him carefully, and Blaine felt once more as if he were on trial, as if he had to prove something to Kurt. "I can tell you that, within the next week or two, there will be a murder. And when that murder takes place, it will turn the tide of desperation, and there won't be a better time to take him down. I've waited a long time, you see, for the right person, and now it's all about to fall into place. Wait until then, and we'll talk again afterward."

He stood. Blaine only gaped at him. "But —"

"That'll be all, Mr. Black. Don't contact me. I'll contact you." He slipped on his coat.

"How do you know there'll be a murder? By Karofsky, right? Can we prevent it? If we can, shouldn't we?"

For the first time, a hint of distress flickered across Kurt's face. "If it plays out the way I think it will, then . . . then if I know her, and I _do_ know her, then . . . it'll be a necessary evil, but it won't . . ." He straightened. "I'll call you." He started to walk away.

Blaine stood quickly. "Mr. — Mr. Green!" he shouted. The waitress glanced at him curiously. He couldn't make a scene. But he couldn't simply let Kurt walk out the door. Moments later, however, Kurt had left.

What now?

**tbc**

* * *

a/n: There's actually only one other scene from Blaine's POV, and it's not for a while. This was just a little teaser. The next chapter is all Rachel's POV. Get pumped! :)


	3. Chapter 3

_a/n: I'm so sorry for the long wait! I had a lot of trouble with this chapter, and I kept simply avoiding it and instead working on various other one-shots that will hopefully see the light of the internet some day. Here it is, though, and the good news is that, in addition to other stories, I worked some on later chapters and I now have a third of chapter four and half of chapter five written, so they should be finished much more quickly. It was sort of like avoiding eating my veggies at dinner by skipping ahead to dessert, but I went back and finished the job eventually! I hope to have the next chapter up in the next few days :)_

* * *

She started to sing.

She couldn't _not_.

Sometimes she couldn't hold back her voice. Sometimes the music simply _had_ to pour out of her. And tonight stars littered the sky, the wind blew warm and sweet, and Finn held her hand in his and walked alongside her. What better sort of night could there possibly be? It was a night that _begged_ her to sing. She thought of that old song her daddy had liked so much, and she remembered how he would dance around the living room with her whenever it came on the radio.

He always said it made his heart sour.

_"Forget your troubles and just get happy,"_ she began, and when Finn caught her eye, a small half-smile on his face, she beamed. _"__You better chase all your cares away, / Sing hallelujah, come on, get happy!"_

His smile widened, and he suddenly twirled her around. She went on, letting her voice carry across the street. There wasn't much of an audience, but Finn was there, and he was the only audience she needed now. _"Get ready for the judgement day / The sun is shining, come on, get happy!"_ She swung their intertwined hands happily and skipped slightly as they continued down the street.

_"The Lord is waitin' to take your hand, / Shout hallelujah, come on, get happy!"_

And then Finn smiled and joined in, his voice soft and sweet. _"We're going to the promised land. / We're headin' cross the river, / Wash your sins away In the tide. / It's all so peaceful on the other side!"_

Oh.

_Oh._

He could sing.

Finn Hudson could _sing_.

Her heart burst.

_"Forget your troubles and just get happy,"_ they sang, his voice complementing hers, _"You better chase all your cares away. / Shout hallelujah, come on, get happy! / Get ready for the judgement day! . . ."_

As they finished, she couldn't take her eyes off him. She took a slow breath, their voices still ringing in her ears. The urge to kiss him, right then and there, flushed through her. He only smiled shyly and looked away. "I always liked that one," he said, as if that explained everything.

Finally, she found her own voice again.

"You can sing!" she gushed. "Oh, Finn, you're so _talented_! Why didn't you say anything? Oh, goodness! Do you know what this means? Tomorrow tonight you should come on stage with me and sing a duet! Wouldn't it be amazing?" She grasped both his hands and cradled them close. "We'll be the cat's pyjamas!"

His eyes went wide. "I don't know about that, Rachel," he protested. "I'm not one to sing in front of anybody. I wouldn't do well up on a stage like that."

"But you sang in front of me just now!" she said. "And you sang _beautifully_!" She could already see the standing ovation she and Finn would receive. _He could sing_. Her heart beat faster at the very thought.

"You're not just anybody," he replied. "You're _Rachel._" And he brushed her cheek affectionately with his knuckles. She bit her lip, blushing a little in pleasure at the way he said her name, at the way he looked at her. Nobody had ever looked at her like that.

And he could _sing_.

They sounded _spectacular_ together.

He took her hand once more, and they started the last block to her house.

"Where'd you learn to sing?" she asked him.

He shrugged. "I never really learned," he said.

"You could really go far with your voice, you know," she told him. "I could give you lessons, if you like. I'm an excellent teacher."

"I'd rather watch you sing," he replied, and he glanced at her in _that_ way again. She bit her lip and squeezed his hand. He might be shy with his voice, but she would make sure he didn't neglect his talent. After all, she had already made it clear she intended to help him learn to dance. He had adamantly refused to try the Lindy Hop again after last Saturday, yet this evening she had talked him into another try.

He made it through all eight steps this time, and she was so proud. He had such potential. He could be famous someday, and she would be right beside him. They could be famous together. She smiled to herself as they walked in a few minutes of silence. And then she couldn't help herself.

"What do you want to do someday?" she asked.

"What do I want to do?"

"That's right." She nodded. "You said you were a Boxer for now, but that it wasn't a life. What is a life, then?"

Again, he simply shrugged. "I don't know."

"Oh, I don't believe that," she insisted. "You have to have a dream. Everyone does. Go on. You can trust me." She squeezed his hand once more and gazed up at him as they walked. If she tripped, she was sure he would catch her.

He had walked her home every night for nearly a week now. He sat with her at McKinley's every night, and he talked with her, and he lamented with her that she couldn't go on stage. And then he walked her home, and it was always so _amazing_. And he always he kissed her goodnight. In a few minutes, he would kiss her again. Her stomach coiled in excitement. She was dizzy with it all, with his kisses and his voice and _him_.

He was her first kiss. She wondered happily if he would be her last, her only, if —

"I always wanted to have my own place, I guess," he admitted quietly.

"Your own place?" she repeated, encouraging.

"My own gym," he clarified. "I always thought I could be a good trainer, you know? And I could help kids, like this old fellow back home really helped me, and. . . ." He trailed off, his cheeks pink, and he wouldn't look at her.

"I think that sounds lovely," she said.

"I don't know. It's only a thought. I just . . . I want to make something of myself, you know? My ma always thought I could do anything, and I wanna prove her right and all. I don't want to be a nobody all my life." He spoke softly.

"You won't be," she replied gently. "Somebody like you, as smart and handsome and talented as you — you're like me, Finn. You were made for great things." They had reached her house, and he stopped and turned to face her.

"You really think so?"

"I know it," she replied firmly.

He smiled, and flowers sprouted up in her stomach and tickled her heart. "I can't wait for Saturday," he told her as he tucked a loose lock of her hair behind her ear. His fingers slid across her jaw, and goose bumps rose up all over her skin.

"Me neither," she breathed, the words an unintentional whisper. She didn't know how, but he never failed to make her melt in the most wonderful way.

He started to lean down. Curling her fingers in the material of his coat, she leaned up onto her tiptoes to meet his lips with hers. He kissed her slowly, and she only wanted him closer, wanted more, wanted never to pull away. After a few glorious moments, however, they parted.

Still, he was close, and she could feel his breath wash across her face. The feeling was completely intoxicating. "Someday," she said softly, "we'll go to New York together, and we'll take the city by storm." She smiled.

Something flickered in his eyes. "Rachel," he whispered, the word like a plea, and suddenly his grip on her arms loosened. "I should go." He stepped away from her and shoved his hands into his pockets. "Have a good night." He wouldn't look at her. She didn't want him to leave, but what could she say?

"I'll see you tomorrow," she said, reminding him, "it's my second show."

"Right," he said. "I actually have a fight tomorrow night. But if I have time — if it finishes in time, I mean — I'll come by." His eyes darted to hers momentarily, and he offered a small smile. "Goodnight," he repeated.

"Goodnight," she said. She walked slowly up to the porch and then to the front door, and she glanced back to see that he stood there still, waiting for her to go in, as he always did. She smiled at the sight, even as she went in.

It was already late, already past midnight, and she climbed the stairs to her room as quietly as she could.

Maybe he wasn't used to imagining his dreams could come true, but she was, and she would help him realise that they really could have it all, him and her. She changed into her nightgown and burrowed under the sheets. She stared up at the ceiling. She closed her eyes. She thought of his kisses. She opened her eyes and knew how impossible it would be to sleep.

Her thoughts were too consumed with him.

How could she sleep with stars in her eyes?

She fell asleep at some point, lulled by the remembrance of his gorgeous voice, and her usual nightmares weren't even all that terrible. And when Mrs. Baxter woke Rachel up the next morning, there were still stars in her eyes. She proceeded through her morning routine with a smile on her face. She had a date tomorrow tonight, and she had a performance tonight.

She would be in the spotlight again, as she should have been every night this past week.

She wrote some in her journal, listened to the Saturday morning radio, and practised her scales and a few songs. She even helped Mrs. Baxter prepare lunch. She couldn't seem to sit still for long, however, and it was barely past three before she had on her new dress and found herself pushing her way into McKinley's.

The club opened early in the afternoon every day, but it was virtually empty until five or six in the evening. Still, over the last week, Rachel had taken to stopping by at three or four, as all her new friends were there. Sam was always working, Mercedes, too, and even Kurt was usually at the bar with his notebook. She could talk to Tina, too, if she came in early enough, and she loved Tina. Sometimes Finn came in early, too.

And it wasn't as if Rachel had anything better to do with her time. Besides, she brought something to read, too.

Kurt wasn't there today, and Finn had yet to arrive, but Rachel was sure Finn would be there before she went on stage. He had told her would try to be, anyway, and she knew he would try his hardest. He knew how important this was to her, and he loved her voice; he had told her as much countless times.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Evans," Rachel greeted. "May I have a glass of water, please?"

"Afternoon, Ms. Berry," Sam said, and he already had a water to hand her. She felt like a regular, and she smiled widely. "What did you bring to read today?" he asked.

She pulled out _Ladies Home Journal_. "Let me read you this recipe," she told him. "I read it this morning and thought of you, as I know how much you love avocados. Listen. 'Sunday dinner: corn soup, fricasseed chicken with brown rice, broiled tomatoes, avocado and lettuce salad, toasted wafers, and coffee or tea.' Doesn't that sound _delicious_?"

"Sure does," he said.

"Mrs. Baxter promised to try it all soon," Rachel said, adding happily, "I'll bring you any leftovers." Moments later, Mercedes appeared, startling Rachel as she slammed down a tray of empty glasses on the bar. She slid them to Sam and then sat down heavily beside Rachel.

"Sweetheart, you really need to find a hobby," she said. "This ain't a place to spend your days."

"You spend your days here," Rachel argued.

Mercedes sent her a pointed look.

Rachel pretended not to see. "Besides, I do have a hobby: my voice. And I happen to be one of those lucky individuals who uses her hobby as a job, and my job is here." She smiled, as that clearly settled it.

Mercedes only sighed, shook her head, and turned to Sam. He handed her a drink, and they glanced at one another only to glance away quickly. They always seemed so uncomforatble around each other, Rachel noticed. She should ask Finn about them. Mercedes downed half her glass in one go, and Rachel started to say something only to spot Tina across the club. She waved happily.

Tina couldn't wave in reply, as her arms were laden with another tray of empty glasses, but as soon as she set them on the bar and pushed them to Sam, she greeted Rachel. "How are you?" she asked quietly.

"I'm swell, thank you," Rachel replied. "How are you?" She frowned a little. "Should you really carry trays like that — in your state?"

Tina pressed a hand to her stomach. She was nearly seven months pregnant. "I'm fine," she insisted. "But thank you." Again, she smiled. Rachel really did like Tina. She worked in the kitchen with her husband, Mike, and they were both such simple, nice folks.

"Here," Rachel said, "sit and have a sip of water." She patted the seat beside her.

"I really shouldn't," Tina said.

"Nah, have a seat, girl," Mercedes pushed. "Mr. Karofsky ain't around, and none of us care."

Glancing between their encouraging faces, Tina finally nodded and sat. She accepted a water from Sam. "Thanks," she murmured. She smiled at Rachel. "I like your dress."

"Thank you!" Rachel exclaimed. "It's another new one. I wanted to look my best for my performance tonight." She smoothed the skirt of the blue gown and smiled happily. "What do you think, Mr. Evans?"

"It's real nice, doll," he assured, putting away the last of the clean glasses.

She leaned on her hand and watched him carefully. He had to be at least thirty years old. "You're the sweetest, Mr. Evans. Has anyone ever told you that?"

He chuckled. "Sure," he replied, teasing, "all the dames tell me that." When Tina laughed, he winked, and Rachel giggled a little too, despite herself.

"Tell me, then," Rachel said. "Do you have a girl?"

He paused, his expression slipping a little. "A girl? No," he said. "Nope."

"You should have one," Rachel encouraged. Sam would make a great steady. "And there are all sorts of pretty girls who come here. I'm sure any of them would love a fellow like you!"

"You know," Tina said, "I wish I could hear you sing tonight. You'll go on tonight, won't you? But I can't hear anything from the kitchen."

"I do go on tonight — it's only my second show. But — but nothing at all?" Rachel asked, surprised. "That's no fun at all! Would you like me to sing something for you now? I have all my songs prepared! And, of course, I have an extensive repertoire of music, so if you have a request —"

"Mother Mary!" Mercedes exclaimed. "Pipe down! How do you ever have time to sing when you talk that much?" Rachel started to reply, but Mercedes didn't give her the chance. "Hey, Mickey!" she shouted. "Play me something!"

Rachel watched in surprise as, across the club, the band started up, Mercedes drank the rest of her drink, slammed it down, and stood. And then she started to sing. _"There's a cheerful little earful, / Gosh, I miss it something fearful, / And this cheerful little earful, / Is the well known I love you."_

Sam grinned, and Rachel stared in shock. Mercedes had real talent, and she smirked slightly at Rachel, as if to assure Rachel that she did, in fact, know just how talented she was.

_"Stocks can go down," _she sang, _"Bus'ness slow down, / But the milk and honey flow down, / With a cheerful little earful, / Of the well known I love you."_

"You, too, now, sweetheart," Sam said, and he nodded at Tina. Rachel watched in even greater amazement as Tina smiled shyly and let her soft voice join Mercedes's deep one. _"In ev'ry play it's a set phrase, / What the public get phrase, / But as a pet phrase, / It'll do do do."_

Rachel couldn't believe it. They were _both_ speculator. First Finn proved to have the voice of an angel, and now Mercedes and Tina revealed they did, too. _"Poopa rooit, soft and cuit,"_ they sang, _"Make me happy, you can do it. / With a cheerful little earful, / Of the well known I love you."_

Rachel started to clap, only for Mercedes to pull her to her feet, Tina, too, and she twirled them both at once. Rachel laughed happily as they began to dance. Sam whistled. All three girls sang the final verse.

_"In ev'ry play it's a set phrase, / What the public get phrase, / But as a pet phrase, / It'll do do do. / Poopa rooit, soft and cuit. / Make me happy, you can do it. / With a cheerful little earful, / Of the well known: I love you. . . ."_

Mercedes belted out the final word, and the few patrons of the club all clapped as Rachel beamed and Mercedes grinned in satisfaction. "You can _sing_," Rachel said, sitting back down happily.

"I know that," Mercedes replied, sitting beside her. "And I never said I couldn't. I told you that you weren't the only one who could give a show, didn't I? And Tina ain't too bad, either." She winked at her friend.

"I still can't believe it," Rachel exclaimed. "There's simply so much talent in this place! You two can sing, and Finn can sing, and —"

"Oh, hold on, what did you just say?"

"Finn can sing," Rachel repeated. "Oh, Mercedes, he can sing so well! He joined me in a stunning rendition of _Get Happy_ last night. He could be famous! You could be, too! And you, too, Tina!"

Mercedes only grinned. "The boy can sing, can he?" She laughed slightly, and Sam chuckled, too.

"Can you sing, too?" Rachel asked Sam.

"He sure can," Mercedes said, and Sam ducked away, even as Rachel clapped in excitement. How could so much talent be hidden away? "Gosh, I bet half the birds in this place can sing," Mercedes went on. "I've heard Puck croon a tune or two to make his quiffs giggle. And Quinn Fabray has a voice on her, too."

That took Rachel by surprise. "Really?" she asked.

"I remember that," Tina said. "I saw her up there once."

"Up where?" Rachel asked, glancing back and forth between Mercedes and Tina.

"On stage," Tina said.

"She used to be the Friday night singer," Mercedes explained. Rachel couldn't believe it, but Mercedes only nodded. "She only went on for a few weeks, though, before Karofsky decided he'd be her sugar daddy. He took her off the stage and set her by his side."

She leaned closer. "If you ask me," she said, "I think the girl was better off on stage."

"How long ago was this?"

"Over a year ago," Mercedes said. "She came here when she was only seventeen. She had worked at a few other places, never staying anywhere for long, until here. She was one of us, really — until Karofsky got a hold of her, anyway."

Rachel didn't know what to say. She tried to imagine Quinn at the bar with Rachel and Mercedes, and she simply couldn't make the image fit right. "She had a crush on Finn, I remember," Tina said. "Of course, he couldn't say three straight words in front of her." She and Mercedes both smiled.

Rachel wasn't so sure she liked the sound of that, however.

"Where's she from?" Rachel asked.

"Detroit," Mercedes said. "High class Detroit, actually. She ain't a high hat or nothing, at least, wasn't when we first met her." Again, she leaned close, as if to share a secret. "See, her daddy had all kinds of money and class, until the market crashed, you know? Now, she never gave us any real details, but she did say enough, back when we worth the time of day. See, the market crashed, and her old man lost everything, so he took a gun and . . ." She raised her eyebrows.

"He killed himself?" Rachel whispered.

"And left Quinn and her mama to fend for themselves," Mercedes said, nodding. "Quinn was only fourteen, then, too. Makes you feel a little bad for her, doesn't it?"

It did. Rachel nodded sadly.

"The depression's hit us all hard," Tina said softly, and she ran a hand unconsciously over her stomach. "How about your parents in Ohio?" she asked Rachel. "Has the depression hit bad there, too?" Mercedes and Sam both looked at Rachel. She knew that she should share something; even Quinn Fabray had said her piece back when she befriended them. But what should she say?

"Of course," Rachel finally answered. "The Great Depression has swept the entire nation. And, you know, last year a terrible heat wave passed over Ohio. We had the highest temperatures in our history." She took a long sip of water.

Mercedes kept her gaze on Rachel. "But your mama and pops?" she pushed. "They need you to send money home? Finny sends money back to his mama every week."

"Actually," Rachel said delicately, "my daddy died. He worked as an attorney, however, and he was still employed as of his death. We weren't well off, necessarily, but we had enough, and he would have made it through relatively unscathed financially, I'm sure."

"I'm sorry," Tina said quietly. "How'd he die?"

Again, they all waited for an answer. And Rachel knew she had to give them _something_ good, something honest enough that they would leave her alone, at least until she knew that she really could trust them.

"He was shot, actually," she said, her gaze on her water. "The cops never knew for sure who to hold accountable. And my mother didn't make a very big fuss." She paused. "I haven't spoken to her since I left."

_Because I hate her_, she added silently. _Because it's all her fault_.

Mercedes placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "You've got us now, baby," she murmured. Rachel looked over at her, and Mercedes smiled kindly. Rachel couldn't help but smile, too, as Mercedes rubbed her back softly and Tina took her hand and squeezed.

She had never really had friends before.

For the briefest of moments, she imagined pouring everything out to them, telling them the whole story, telling them all the terrible details. That heinous showgirl, Santana, had implied that they had their secrets, too, so maybe they would understand and. . . .

No. She had to be shrewd.

The club slowly began to fill after that. Tina wished Rachel good luck and then disappeared back to the kitchens. Mercedes began to serve patrons, and Sam gave Rachel an Orange Blossom. Around six o'clock, Mr. Schuester came over to usher Rachel on stage. She let all thoughts of her father and her mother fade as she went on.

She knew Finn would be there soon to see her, and in the meantime she had a waiting audience.

She started off with _Cheerful Little Earful_ in tribute to Mercedes, and then she sang a few other other favourites by Ira Gershwin. She sang some popular tunes, then, ones that everybody knew and loved. She sang _Get Happy_ in hopes that Finn had arrived and it would make him smile.

She took a break at eight as the band played a few numbers without her. She saw Noah Puckerman, Mr. Karfosky, and Quinn Fabray all at the same table they always took, and when she saw that Quinn Fabray returned her gaze, she almost wanted to wave. But Quinn _wasn't_ her friend, despite what Rachel might now know of her past, and Rachel hurried back to the bar.

Finn wasn't there.

"He could still come," Sam said.

He never did. But it was a good night. She finished at midnight, and afterward Noah stopped by to hand her a ten dollar bill. She nearly spilled her drink all down her dress. "You looked good up there, Canary," he told her, winking as he waltzed away. Rachel blushed despite herself.

She stayed another two hours in hopes that Finn might come, but eventually Sam walked her home. He didn't hold her hand, and she couldn't convince him to sing no matter how much she begged, but he saw her home safely, like a right gentlemen.

She went to bed and dreamed of Finn Hudson for the seventh night in a row.

When nightmares broke into her dreams for the seventh night in a row and dragged her back to Ohio and that stable and his leering eyes, she awoke in a sweat and sang slightly to herself to calm down. She thought of Finn. "_Come on, get happy," _she murmured.

His sweet smile lulled her back to sleep.

She woke the next morning to the sound of rain pounding on the window. Her thoughts turned immediately to her date that night. And she grinned and squealed and danced around under the covers, because she had a _date_ tonight, a date with _Finn Hudson._

Maybe he would sing for her again.

She thought she might be in love with him.

That seemed so silly, she knew, but her daddy always used to say that love takes a person by surprise. "You can't plan love," he would say, "not the where or when or how, and certainly not the who. You'll see, pumpkin."

She knew her daddy would have loved Finn.

Finn was a lot like her dad, actually. He was kind, and genuine, and he always listened to her. He could make her laugh, and he had passion in him, true passion as so few people truly possessed. Of course, he was different than her father. Finn struck her as courageous, too, and that was something her daddy never quite managed to be.

Rachel curled up in bed and stared out the window. It really was raining pitchforks out.

She wondered if she could tell Finn her whole story, and what he would think.

Did he love her, too?

She _did_ love him, then, didn't she?

Despite herself, she giggled a little and buried her face in her pillow. She wondered what would happen on their date. He would take her to a fancy dinner, she was sure, some place where they could dance. And then they'd go to the movie, and she would sit close to him, and inhale his lovely boy smell. Afterward, he would walk with her, and hold her hand, and ask her out again.

Maybe he would even ask her to be his girl.

She giggled again, flailing about her bed once more. Who wouldn't love that tall, beautiful man?

Mrs. Baxter knocked on the door. "Dear," she called, "breakfast is ready."

"I'll be right down!" Rachel replied.

She climbed from her warm cocoon of blankets of pillows and quickly washed up and dressed for the day, for a day that couldn't possibly fly by fast enough. She made her bed and hurried to breakfast, and she beamed at Mrs. Baxter and the other three young tenets, Claire, Janie, and Laurel. They were all sweet girls, if a little dull.

She liked her McKinley's friends better.

"Do you want to see a show tonight?" Claire asked.

"Or a movie?" Laurel suggested.

"I'm sorry, girls," Rachel replied, trying not to act _too_ smug. "I would absolutely love a night out with you all, but I'm afraid I really can't."

"Really, Rachel," Mrs. Baxter said, her tone already thick with disapproval, "it isn't right for a young girl to work every night anywhere, let along at a club. Those places aren't for nice girls like you." She paused. "Most women who frequent such places are . . ." She leaned closer and spoke softer, as if the words were dirty," . . . are _floozies_ and the like, and they have loose morals if any at all. You shouldn't mix with them."

"I know, Mrs. Baxter," Rachel assured. "But I sing at the club. It's my job, and I always take my job seriously. I don't involve myself in anything unbecoming, I promise."

"I'm sure you don't _intentionally_, dear," Mrs. Baxter said. She sighed. "Don't take wooden nickels, Rachel, that's all I mean to say. You have a mind. Be sure to use it."

"I will," Rachel said firmly. "And, in fact, I don't have to work tonight. I have a date."

"Ooh," Janie said.

"What's he like?" Claire demanded.

"He's wonderful," Rachel gushed. "He's tall and handsome, and he walks me home from McKinley's every night so that I don't have to walk in the dark by myself. He's the sweetest."

"He works at McKinley's?" Mrs. Baxter asked, and her eyebrows rose so high they disappeared beneath her fading curls.

"No," Rachel answered. "But, really, he's a very upstanding man, Mrs. Baxter." Rachel wouldn't let anyone think ill of Finn, she simply wouldn't. "He's a right gentlemen, cross my heart."

Claire sighed. "I want to find a fellow like that."

"What does he do, then? Is he some sort of dewdropper who spends his evenings at a club?" She stared Rachel down, like some sort of disapproving grandmother. Of course, Rachel knew Mrs. Baxter meant well.

"Not at all," Rachel said. "He boxes. He wants to own his own gym one day, though. He has ambitions. And he'll take the world, Mrs. Baxter, I know it."

"If you say so, dear," Mrs. Baxter said doubtfully.

"Oh," Janie exclaimed, "you sound so in _love_. I want to have that!"

Rachel beamed, and she ate in happy silence as Mrs. Baxter assured Janie that she, and all the girls, would find good men who worked hard, trusted in God, and treated ladies well. Rachel had already found her good man — her _perfect_ man. She knew it. One day, she would be Mrs. Rachel Hudson.

Didn't the name simply make your toes curl in delight?

She would become famous by that name. She couldn't wait, for that or for tonight. She had a date with Finn Hudson tonight. Wasn't it amazing? She grinned into her eggs and thought of what he might wear. She was sure he would look absolutely ducky in anything.

After breakfast, she helped Mrs. Baxter clear the dishes and then she headed into town.

She wanted to have her hair done, and she needed a new dress, one that she hadn't worn at McKinley's and would really impress Finn. She knew she ought to spend her money more wisely, she ought to save whatever she could, but this wasn't merely for a night out.

This was an investment in her future.

She told the lady at the salon all about Finn, and she had her hair done up in a fancy, curled twist. She bought herself a brown gown, one that the saleslady assured really brought out her eyes, and it had this gorgeous beading that really added a _flair_. On impulse, she even purchased a tube of bright red lipstick, because she knew that was all the rage, and she wanted to do this date right.

She arrived home far too late for the lunch Mrs. Baxter prepared, but Claire made her a sandwich as Janie and Laurel fawned over her hair and her dress, and Rachel had honestly never felt so pretty. She took a long bath, careful not to wet her hair, and she shaved her legs carefully, and her armpits, too. Her mother always said it was completely ridiculous for girls to shave, but Rachel had never cared what her mother thought before, and she certainly didn't now.

She looked as gorgeous wearing her dress in front of the bathroom mirror as she had looked in front of the store mirror, and she thought her lipstick made her look so sophisticated — Laurel certainly claimed it did. She put on her favourite heals, and she glanced at the clock. It was a little past six.

Finn would be there to pick her up at seven. They would go to dinner first, and then the movie at nine. Rachel watched the minute hand on her father's beloved old pocket watch slowly trickle by. She tried to read a little, but she couldn't focus. She reapplied her lipstick. She sang a little to herself. She waved Claire, Janie, and Laurel off when they left for a show downtown.

Finally, after _forever_, seven came. It was time.

And then seven went.

She had always thought Finn to be the punctual sort, as he was far too considerate to leave a girl — or anyone, really — waiting. But she supposed everyone was held up now and again. Still, seven became seven fifteen, and then half past, and then it started to near eight. Where was he? She glanced anxiously out the window.

She paced the living room and pretended not to feel Mrs. Baxter's pitying stare.

Eight o' clock passed. Rachel went back up to her room. This didn't make any sense. She hadn't seen him yesterday, of course, but she had seen him on Thursday, and he had told her as he kissed her goodnight how very excited he was for their date. Surely he hadn't forgotten. Why wasn't he here, then? What happened?

She refused to cry.

But as the clock approached nine, she could hardly stop herself. She wanted to ring him, but did he have a telephone? She didn't even knew. She decided, as the grandfather clock downstairs chimed nine fifteen, that she would go to McKinley's. Maybe something had happened to him, and Sam or Mercedes would know and tell Rachel.

But what could've happened?

She put on her coat — not her aunt's beaded shawl that looked so lovely with her new dress — and hurried to McKinley's. When she arrived, the showgirls were in full swing, and the whole club was crowded, but Rachel went straight to the bar. "Ms. Berry!" Sam exclaimed, clearly surprised. "Finn with you?"

"No, actually," Rachel said, her stomach sinking. Sam would know if something had happened, and he clearly knew of nothing.

"I thought you two had a date tonight," he said.

"We did. He was meant to pick me up over two hours ago. He never showed." She tried not to let her voice tremble as she spoke. "Did something happen to him, do you think? Has he been by here? Was he here this afternoon?"

"I'm sorry, doll," Sam said sadly, "I haven't seen him since Thursday night."

"What's the matter?" Mercedes asked, joining them. "You look swell, sweetheart," she noted, "what with your hair all dolled up like that. You have your date tonight, don't you? And, oh, goodness, that boy didn't bring you here, did he?" She chuckled a little, but her smile faded slightly at the look on Rachel's face.

"He didn't show," Rachel murmured. "I thought maybe something had happened. . . ."

There was a thick, pregnant pause.

"I can't think of what might have happened," Mercedes said. "Karofsky certainly doesn't seem to think anything's wrong, and he tends to keep an eye on our coming and goings. And he hasn't given Finn anything to do. . . ." Her own voice trailed off and then she reached a hand out and brushed Rachel's arm gently, pity growing in her gaze.

"He stood me up, then?" Rachel whispered. "Why would he do that? No, he wouldn't." She glanced between both Sam and Mercedes, but neither would meet her gaze. "Is that why he didn't come by last night, or even in the afternoon? Did he mean to avoid me?"

"Maybe it's for the best, Rachel," Mercedes offered gently. "Finn isn't the sort to have a steady girl."

Rachel didn't know what to say. And she was sure if she opened her mouth, she would burst into tears. The club suddenly seemed so hot, so smoky and crowded, and she felt sick. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "Excuse me. I need to go home." She turned away, and neither of her friends tried to stop her.

She nearly tumbled out of the club and onto the street, and she took a deep breath of the cool night air, trying and failing to keep her tears at bay. He had stood her up. He had decided she wasn't worth his time, and he couldn't even tell her to her face. She swiped angrily at her lipstick.

She was such a stupid, _stupid_ sap. She thought herself in love with him, and he didn't care one whit about her.

She'd been an insipid, childish fool. Her mother had always told her that she kept her head in the clouds and one day someone would knock her off her feet for it. What must Finn have thought of her? She wondered if, after he walked her home, he returned to McKinley's and laughed to himself, maybe with Noah, about that silly, _silly_ singer.

He probably didn't even like her voice.

Mr. St. James had always told Rachel that she wasn't nearly as talented as she liked to think.

She went home as quickly as she could, and she passed by Mrs. Baxter and climbed the stairs to her room without a word. She yanked off her heals, tore off her dress, and collapsed on her bed. And she cried. Mrs. Baxter came up to her room. She sat beside her and ran a hand sweetly over her hair and spoke softly and soothingly.

It didn't much help.

Eventually, Mrs. Baxter left.

And Rachel cried herself to sleep.

**tbc**

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**a/n: Not as fun as Finn's POV? More fun? Please review?**  
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	4. Chapter 4

_a/n: Again, I'm sorry this took longer to post than I said it would. It ended up much longer than I had intended, and I kept re-writing the scenes and . . . this was by far the hardest thing for Glee I've written yet. Hopefully it doesn't disappoint! The next chapter will be up in . . . okay, let me make a promise I might be able to keep: the next chapter will be up in the next week. Sound good? Among other things, I really need to get the next chapter of "When the World Comes Down" posted before I go any further in this._

* * *

Someone pounded on the door.

He groaned and pressed his face into his pillow, only to hiss in pain and pull back. He didn't know what time it was, but it had to be early. And only old Mr. Figgins would pound on his door this early. Finn was late on rent again, and Figgins was a pretty okay fellow, but he would probably lose it if Finn _still_ didn't have rent.

Finn couldn't deal with him today.

He already felt like shit. Every bone in his body _hurt_, and that wasn't even the worst of it. He had never felt this guilty in his entire life, which didn't make much sense — he had done a helluva lot worse before. Somehow, though, he thought of _her_ and it made him wish his ribs really were broken.

The pounding grew louder, only to stop suddenly.

Finn let out a sigh of relief. Maybe if he counted back from one hundred, like his ma used to always say to do, he could fall asleep. His eyes flickered closed again. Moments later, however, they flew open as a loud bang reverberated through his two room apartment. Did Figgins _break_ _down the door_?

Finn grit his teeth and pushed himself up.

Maybe Figgins would pity him and leave him be for today.

"Finn Hudson!" she shouted.

His stomach dropped, even as his eyes went wide.

_Rachel_.

No. That wasn't possible.

"Mr. Hudson!"

But it was possible. Because she was there. Rachel had found out where he lived. And she had come to his apartment, and she had pounded on his door, and then she had _broken in_.

She was _crazy_.

His bedroom door slammed open suddenly, and gone were any thoughts that maybe, just maybe, it wasn't actually her. The room was dim — he had those old, moth-eaten curtains drawn closed over the window — but he could still see her clearly. She stood there in some sort of ridiculous yellow polka dot skirt and matching sweater, and her face was fierce as she opened her mouth, surely to let out a long spiel. But when her gaze actually landed on him, she only gaped.

"Morning, Rachel," he said quietly.

"Finn," she said, her voice thick with shock. Her large eyes looked even larger as she stared at him.

"How'd you know where I live?" he asked.

"I — I —"

He thought it might be the first time Rachel Berry had ever stood speechless.

"What _happened_?" she finally demanded. "Who did this to you?"

He sighed and looked away. "It's nothing," he told her.

"Nothing?" she repeated, a shrill note in her voice. There was a thick pause. "I spoke with Mr. Hummel this morning," she said, "and I demanded your address because I felt I deserved an explanation for your terrible behaviour last night. I came here not only for that explanation but also to give you a piece of my mind, but I — _Finn_. . . ." Her voice trailed off.

He met her gaze once more. "I'm sorry," he offered softly. She had no idea.

Uncertainly, she stepped a little closer. "Please, Finn. What happened? Did —" Once more, her eyes went wide as saucers, as if the idea that had sprung to her mind was as shocking as it was terrible. "Did Mr. Karofsky do this to you?" she whispered.

He chuckled humourlessly, only to wince and press a hand to his burning ribs. "Not directly," he told her. And then he sighed. "Benny Reid," he said. "He's a good thirty pounds heavier than me. I never stood a chance."

"Your fight," she whispered.

He nodded. "I should have tried to let you know," he said, "that I wouldn't be able to take you out, but I . . . I could barely walk Friday night, and then I slept most of yesterday, and I. . . ." He looked down at his sheets. "I thought maybe it would be for the best, you know? You don't want to be tied to a crumb like me."

"I don't want to be tied to someone who lost an unfair fight, you mean?" she asked, and there was something indignant in her gaze. "Do you really think that little of me?"

"Rachel," he murmured. He was too tired for this, too tired to explain to her that this fight was just a part of it, a part of the mess that was his life. "I —"

"Level with me," Rachel interrupted. "Did you _want_ to take me out last night?"

Her hands were on her hips, and she had this demanding look on her face as she waited for an answer. And he knew, he _knew_, that he was supposed to shatter that expression. She was supposed to storm out, and maybe she'd never even come back to McKinley's, and that was the way it _should_ be. For once in his life, he had to do something _right_.

But this last week, for once in his life, he had actually felt _good_. And not even he was daft enough to think it had to do with anything other than this tiny, crazy broad who loved to sing like no one else, who made him dance, who said his name with this kind of reverence, who actually broke into his apartment after he stood her up.

How was he supposed to . . . ?

He stared at his sheets. "Rachel, I —"

She left.

He glanced up and frowned. That was all it took? He took a slow breath.

She reappeared a moment later, though. She had a glass of water and a bottle of aspirin in hand. She opened the bottle, shook two pills out, and then sat softly on the side of the bed. "Rachel," he murmured. She didn't reply. He said nothing as she offered each pill to him and then held the glass to his lips.

He had taken some aspirin on Friday night, but not since — he hadn't left bed since. He tried to say something again, but before he could form any words, she reached out and let her thumb graze his upper lip. He swallowed thickly. _Say something_, he told himself. But she placed the water by the bed and left again with the pills.

And then she reappeared moments later, now with a towel from the bathroom, and he saw she had run it under water. This time, though, she didn't sit on the edge of his bed. Instead, she slipped off her heels and climbed _onto_ the bed. "Rachel," he said, taken aback, "what're you —?"

"Hush," she murmured, her voice firm as she crawled close to him, rested one hand on his knee and used the other to press the towel to the side of his face. He flinched at the contact, but his eyes flickered shut as she ran a hand soothingly through his hair. He knew his face was bruised and swollen and coated in dried blood, he knew he must look terrible, but she didn't seem to mind.

"Raise your arms," she told him.

"Rachel," he said.

"Raise your arms," she insisted gently.

He did, wincing a little at the movement. He hoped she didn't see. If she did, she said nothing. She only curled her small fingers around the bottom of his shirt, the one he'd pulled on in a daze when he finally made it home Friday night, and she began to tug.

"Rachel," he protested, trying to pull his arms back down, "you don't have to —"

"Shh," she said. "Keep your arms up." And then she caught his gaze, and she brushed her fingers through his hair once more. "Please, sweetheart." Her voice was soft and sweet, and he felt himself deflate right there in front of her.

He couldn't deny her. He _couldn't_. Maybe he could pretend it was possible when she wasn't there, when he had alcohol in his veins or had taken a few good punches an hour before, but he couldn't deny her now, not when she was so close and so gorgeous and so _perfect_.

He lifted his arms back up. She pulled his shirt off. He watched her take a sharp breath, and he almost reached for his shirt. But she didn't give him the chance. "Lie back," she said, and after a pause he obediently lay back. She ran the towel over his chest and stomach, and his breath caught a little as her fingers grazed his skin.

He tried not to tremble, but he'd never had anybody take care of him like this, and she was so close, and he had never felt this way before. He had never felt so . . . so . . . so _close_ to someone before. He took a few shaky breaths and closed his eyes.

"I wanted to take you out," he confessed, the words a whisper. "I really did."

"I know," she murmured. Her words were forgiveness, he knew, and he didn't deserve it. Still, he didn't try to protest anymore, not when she began to sing. He didn't know the tune, but it sounded like some sort of childish lullaby, and her voice could make any song beautiful.

As she finished the song, she pressed a quiet kiss to his shoulder, and he shivered a little. Her lips grazed his jaw, then, and he opened his eyes as her breath washed over his face. "Why are you so scared, Finn?" she whispered. She ran her thumb sweetly across the small swatch of his face that wasn't black and blue.

"I'm . . . I'm not. . . ."

"You shouldn't be," she said. "Someone like you — I mean it, Finn — someone like you isn't meant for this. You're so much more than that. You're better than this. Than Reid. Than Puckerman. Than Karofsky. You're better than all of them." She gazed at him so surely.

"I'm sorry," he said, because he didn't know what else to say.

She kissed the corner of his lip. He wanted more. He wanted all of her. He wanted not to be scared anymore. He wanted to be who she seemed so sure he was. He wanted to be someone she could love. Because, as wrong as it really was, he thought he might be falling for her.

He _knew_ he was falling for her. He shouldn't try to deny that even to himself.

"Sleep," she said gently, and she ran her hand through his hair once more, even as she shifted slightly so she lay beside him, and his face tucked into her neck. His nose brushed her skin, and he could feel her pulse point, could feel it racing. She smelled so good, and her skin was so soft — he didn't know skin could _be_ so soft. He might not be any good for her, but he couldn't help himself.

"You know," she murmured, "I don't think my mother and father ever really loved each other. My father certainly cared for my mother, I think, as he spent his life with her, but he married her to make my grandmother happy."

He thought he should say something, but she only went on, and he let her voice wash over him. "He loved me, though. He used to say I was his favourite girl. He called me all sorts of silly names, like muffin and peanut and teddy bear, and it always made me smile." She paused, humming a little as she continued to run her fingers through his hair.

"He had an affair," she said. "My mother, too. She had several, actually. It never bothered me, though, really. I think that might be unhealthy, but my mother and I were never close, and my daddy . . . he explained love to me, you know? As best he could, anyhow, and he hadn't learned from the love of my mother. He used to say that he couldn't be with the person he really wanted to be with because other people would never allow it, and he never had the guts to defy them.

"He would always make me promise never to let other people stand in my way."

It was quiet. She began to sing again. He wanted to promise her that he wouldn't let other people stand in his way, either, he wanted to tell her that he thought he was falling for her, but that sounded so crazy, and how could he make a promise like that?

She pressed her face to the top of his head, and it seemed as if she sang to him in a whisper. Her pulse calmed, and her hands stroked his hair . . . and he wondered if she would think so much of him if she knew all there was to know . . . and her skin was _so_ soft . . . and . . . and everything smelled like pancakes.

Groggily, he opened his eyes.

Rachel wasn't there. He rubbed his eyes and pushed himself up. He winced. _Damn_. He wiped the drool from his chin and leaned back against the wall. There was still a kind of dim glow around the curtains, which meant he hadn't sleep the _entire_ day, but he had no idea what time it was. No matter the time, he did feel a little better after a few hours sleep, but his whole face and chest and right arm still _throbbed_.

And Rachel was gone.

Had she even been there in the first place? Had he dreamed all that? He sighed. He probably had. Rachel would never speak to him again, let alone come to his apartment and take care of him. He wished she had, he wished she really were that adorably crazy, and that unbelievably sweet, and he wasn't really so fucking alone.

He shouldn't wish that. But he did.

He frowned.

His apartment really _did_ smell like pancakes. That wasn't part of a dream. He took a quick breath. "Rachel?" he called, and he waited in hopeful silence. And when the bedroom door opened and Rachel stood there, he couldn't really describe the feeling that rose up inside him. Seeing her there, though, with her sweater discarded and her sleeves rolled up, her hair pilled atop her head as she beamed at him, he knew he wasn't _falling_ for her.

He had already fallen for her. _Hard_.

"Good afternoon, Finn!" she said brightly. "Did you sleep well?"

"I think so," he answered, and his gaze followed her as she went over to his window and yanked opened the curtains. Bright yellow light streamed in, and he squinted. "Can you get out of bed?" she asked softly, turning to him. "I made you something to eat."

He knew. He could smell it. And it smelled _delicious_, like something his ma had made.

"I can get out of bed," he assured.

He kicked back the sheets and stood, even as she surged towards him and wrapped an arm around his torso, as if she didn't entirely believe him. He pretended that his breath went short from exertion, not from the feel of her so close, the feel of her arm wrapped around him and her hair tickling his shoulder.

"I'm fine, really," he protested.

"I'll be the judge of that," she replied matter-of-factly, and she walked him into the kitchen.

He almost fell over again.

He wasn't sure how long he had slept, but apparently she hadn't been at a loss for how to pass the time. She had scrubbed down the whole kitchen, it seemed, and much of the rest of the one large room. She had literally tied a washing string from one wall to another, and he saw his clothing all washed and hung, even, to his mortification, his briefs. She had cooked up a storm, too, and seconds after she sat him down at the table, she placed a plate in front of him.

He only stared at her, and she beamed at him. "Eat all of it," she said. "I'll tend to your sheets."

She disappeared back into his bedroom.

She really was crazy.

But she could cook. She could _really_ cook. He wondered if there were anything Rachel _couldn't_ do. He smiled when he heard her start to sing from the bedroom, and she looked so _happy_ when she traipsed back into the room with his sheets all bundled up in her arms. She sent him a winning smile and then disappeared into his tiny bathroom, apparently to wash his sheets.

She really didn't have to do that, or any of this.

If she wanted to cook some more eggs, though, he wouldn't stop her.

As he ate, however, and listened to her sing from the bathroom, he felt his stomach sink again. She seemed to think everything was Jake now. She seemed to think that their talk this morning had fixed everything. But she didn't even know what was broken. He did.

She reappeared, and he watched her as she hung up his sheets on her make-shift laundry line.

"You really don't have to do that," he said. "You've done more than enough."

"I don't mind," she said, smiling. "Do you want some more aspirin?"

He nodded, and she went to the corner kitchen, shook a few pills into her hand, and handed them over to him as she sat down at the table. "Do you feel any better at all?" she asked.

He nodded. "But we . . . we gotta talk, Rachel."

Her smile faltered a little.

How did he do this? "I shouldn't have been in that fight," he said. "See, I . . . I like you, Rachel. I do. I've never . . . I've never felt this way about a girl before, honest. I haven't. You're . . . something else. I've fallen for you."

"Then —"

"Wait, no, lemme finish," he said, because he _needed_ to say all this.

"I shouldn't have been in that fight, but I was because Karofsky _wanted_ me to be. He owns me, Rachel. He _owns_ me. I can't do nothing or go nowhere without his say so. And you shouldn't be tied to me like that. _You're_ better than that. Don't you see?"

"How?" she asked quietly, but her eyes were no less determined than ever before.

"How?" he repeated, unsure.

"How does he own you," she clarified.

He sighed. He didn't want her to think less of him. He should probably tell her, he should probably share all the dirty details, and he should sneer at her and insult her and do anything to get her away from all of this, even if it broke her heart.

But he just didn't have that in him.

"Money, mostly," he said. That was part of it, at least, and part of the truth was better than nothing, right? "I owe him. I had nothing when I got here, and he lent me some dough. I've never been able to pay him back."

"I can help you," she offered.

"No," he said, and he didn't even have to think about that. "I won't take your money."

Her eyes softened, and she reached forward to grasp his hands. "We all make mistakes, Finn. We all do things we regret, and we all feel trapped at times because of it. I know. Believe me, I _know_. But McKinley's isn't your life. There's more out there. And I can show it to you. Even if you insist you make good on your debts to Mr. Karofsky without any help from me, I can still help you. I can still _be_ with you.

"Trust me, won't you?"

"Rachel —"

"Give me a chance, at least," she said, as if she thought she could talk him into anything as long as he didn't have the time to protest. She caught his eyes and held them with that gaze that made all his insides twist and turn and flop all around. "Finn," she said softly, "I've fallen for you, too."

She _could _talk him into anything.

He leaned forward, grasped her waist, and pulled her to him. Her knees brushed his. Her eyes fluttered closed, and he stared at her for a moment, at her long eyelashes, the few freckles on her nose, and her slightly parted lips.

He kissed her.

She surged forward, straddling his lap, and he clutched her arms tightly as she angled her head and whimpered a little into his mouth. His hands ran up and down her arms, and then traced her waist, and then there were on her knees, on the smooth satin of her stockings. Slowly, barely aware of anything but her mouth insistent on his, his hands slid across her legs until he reached the edge of the stockings, and he could feel the lace of her garters and then tantalising skin and —

She pulled away from him, panting slightly, but she was still so close he nearly _felt_ her lips curl into a smile. "We can do this," she whispered.

He wasn't so sure about that. But he couldn't simply walk away from her, not now.

He gave her swollen lips one last chaste kiss, and then he hugged her for a moment, pressing his face into her hair and taking a deep breath. She untangled herself from him and stood, straightening her skirt and smoothing her hands over her blouse. "Do you want something more to eat?" she offered.

"You don't have to make me anything more," he said.

"I don't mind! I like to cook."

He paused. Well, if she _liked_ to cook. . . . "Maybe some more eggs?" he asked sheepishly, and she beamed.

"Of course! I'll cook you a few more eggs, and then I need to head home to change for this evening, but we'll meet at McKinley's, of course. If you can come, that is." She paused, frowning a little. "Actually, you really ought to try to catch a little more sleep."

"Nah," he said, shaking his head. "I need to go in." He gazed at his plate. "After all, Karofsky will want to talk to me, I can promise you that."

She touched his shoulder. "Don't worry," she said. "There's a way out. There's _always_ a way out." She smiled briefly, squeezed his shoulder, and bustled over to the stove.

She stayed for another hour or so, and she fed him and beat her gums until he felt his eyes drooping. But then she only clucked at him and attempted to pull him to his feet with her own strength. He chuckled a little and let her lead him back to bed. She grew suddenly upset when she realised her attempt to clean up had resulted in a bare mattress and wet sheets in the living room, but he assured her he didn't care, and she calmed down after a few minutes.

Before she left, he stole a quick kiss, and he promised he would see her at McKinley's soon.

His whole place seemed smaller without her.

He took another aspirin and slept. It was dark out when he woke, and his watch said it was already past eight, but he only took a few minutes to change, grab the jack — all fifty of it — from the fight, and then walk the three blocks to McKinley's.

He found Rachel at the bar, sipping an Orange Blossom and talking with Sam and Kurt, and she waved happily when she saw him. When he reached the bar, he gave into the impulse to lean down and kiss her cheek. If he was gonna go to hell, and all.

She blushed and then beamed, and Sam smirked as he slid a drink to Finn. He had barely taken a sip, though, before Puck was there. "'Bout time you showed up," Puck said. "Karofsky wants to talk to you. I hope you brought the cash."

"I did," Finn grumbled. He didn't want to talk to Karofsky. But he didn't have much of a choice, did he?

"You look like shit, by the way," Puck added.

"Always such a way with words," Kurt noted idly, his eyes on his notebook.

Finn only glared at Puck, nodded, and downed the rest of his drink. He had to face Karofsky at some point. And it wasn't as if the goon had any reason to be upset. Finn had fought Reid, and he had the bruises and, more importantly, the cash to prove it.

Still, as he stood, Finn didn't look at Rachel.

But Puck did. "Evening, baby," he greeted, using _that_ grin and leaning against the bar.

"Good evening, Mr. Puckerman," she said kindly.

"You're looking good tonight," Puck told her.

"Are we gonna talk with Karofsky or what?" Finn asked, moving slightly to block Rachel from Puck's view. He didn't want a cake-eater like Puck anywhere near Rachel.

"In a minute, Hud," Puck dismissed. "Now, doll, I got some business to attend to, but how's about you save me a dance?" He smiled, laying the charm on thick.

Apparently, however, Rachel was impervious.

"That'd be lovely, Mr. Puckerman," she said, "but I really shouldn't. I have a sweetheart, you know." She looked so pleased with himself, then, and Finn smiled a little. He didn't need everyone to know that he and Rachel were together — if that's what they were — but he liked the way Rachel snubbed Puck because she was _Finn's_ girl.

"Who's that, darling?" Puck asked, teasing. "Who stole your heart before I had a chance?"

"Mr. Hudson," she answered calmly, taking another dainty sip of Orange Blossom.

Puck looked over at Finn, and he appeared impressed, of all things. "Finn's your boy?" He chuckled. "Fair enough." He took the beer Sam held out to him. "Who's gonna save a wreck like me now, then?"

"Have you met Santana Lopez?' Rachel suggested. "I think you two would get along splendidly."

Kurt snorted into his drink, and Finn smiled. He could kiss Rachel right then and there, he really could. "I've met her," Puck answered evenly. "But she ain't got nothing on you." He winked, and Finn wrapped an arm around Rachel.

They _were_ together.

Puck needed to back off.

"Puck," Sam said, and he nodded across the club at Karofsky's table. "He's got an eye on you."

Puck rolled his eyes. "Fucking impatient," he muttered. He still managed a smile for Rachel, though. "Mind if I burrow your boy for a little while, Canary?"

"Not at all," Rachel replied, and Puck brushed a hand flirtatiously against her arm. Finn would rip his arm off, he really would. Puck hadn't boxed in years. Finn could take him. But Puck did nothing more; he only pushed off from the bar and started to weave his way through the club and back to Karofsky's table.

Finn followed, and the moment they were far enough from the bar, Puck glanced at Finn with a lascivious grin. "How long you been making whoopee with that one?" he asked.

"It's not like that," Finn defended immediately. "_She_'s not like that."

"Too bad," Puck said. "It's a crying shame when you can't bed a hot mama that's got gams like that." He wriggled his eyebrows, and Finn shoved him.

"Dry up," he said. "And don't talk about her like that."

Puck only grinned again. Then they were there. Mr. Shuester smiled tiredly in greeting, Quinn didn't bother to spare them a glance, and Bentley Turner, another of Karofsky's countless henchmen, merely nodded at them both. "Mr. Hudson," Karofsky said, his eyes on the jazz band up on stage, his Sunday regulars.

"Mr. Karofsky," Finn said, and he sank into a seat beside Karofsky as Puck took the empty chair beside Quinn.

"How was your fight?" Karofsky asked.

"Got beat pretty bad," Finn said, and Karofsky's gaze finally flickered to him.

He smirked a little as he lit up a cigar. "Looks like it," he said. Finn grit his teeth. "You got my money?" Karofsky asked. Finn handed the cash over, and Karofsky took a moment to count it before he shoved it all in his pocket. "You fight Peter Rammer next Friday," he said.

Finn didn't know who Peter Rammer was, and he was pretty sure he didn't want to know, not now. All he wanted right now was to return to the bar. He glanced over, and he could see Rachel waving her arms around wildly as she tried to explain something to Sam and Kurt.

"Something to drink, Mr. Hudson?" Mercedes asked, drawing his attention back to the table. He shook his head slightly. "What about you, Ms. Fabray? Another water? Or a Mint Julep?" Quinn loved Mint Juleps, if Finn remember right, the way Rachel loved Orange Blossoms. He wondered if all girls had a favourite drink like that.

"I'm fine," Quinn told Mercedes sourly. She looked a little sick.

Finn would probably be sick too if he had to spend all his time with Karofsky.

The table was quiet as Mercedes left. Finn tried not to fidget. Puck told a lewd story, and Karofsky laughed so hard he had to wipe away tears. Quinn didn't appear to hear any of it. Finn glanced back at the bar. Sam was doubled over laughing as Rachel circled Kurt, and Finn guessed she was attempting what they had all attempted — and failed — to do: read Kurt's notebook.

How much longer did Finn have to sit here?

Mercedes saved him eventually. She came by, gave a glass of whiskey to Puck, and then leaned towards Karofsky and spoke softly. "Mr. Karofsky," she said, "you gotta call in the back. It's Doc Howell. Said he had to speak to you right away."

Karofsky went to take the call, and the moment he was out of sight, Finn was on his feet. He nodded at Turner and Shuester, smiled politely at an unresponsive Quinn, and then bolted for the bar. "Finn!" Rachel greeted happily. He loved that she was always so happy to see him.

She reached up and kissed his cheek. Her breath smelled like Orange Blossom, and she giggled and leaned into him a little. Was she tipsy? Her cheeks were flushed, too. He glanced at Sam, who smirked and nodded a little. Finn chuckled. _This_ was much better than an evening spent at a table with Karofsky.

Even as Finn thought it, however, he saw Karofsky reappear on the club floor. His face was blank, his eyes dark, and he stared hard at his usual table. Finn stiffened. Karofsky's mouth drew into a thin line, his eyes narrowed, and his fat hands curled into fists.

Something was wrong.

Karofsky glanced at the bar. His eyes landed on Finn and then flickered to Rachel.

Protective, Finn reached forward and wrapped an arm around her waist, tugging her a little closer to him. She looked up at him, smiled, and then let her gaze fall on his lips. She giggled a little. He gave her a quick kiss and then a smile and, as she began to rave to Sam about how far Finn had come in his progress with the Lindy Hop, Finn glanced back at Karofsky.

But Karofsky had already returned to his table.

Finn focused on Rachel, and on Sam and Kurt, too, and he waited for the night to end. He wanted to walk Rachel home, to be alone with her and away from this awful place. Half past ten, though, Puck came back to the bar. "Something's wrong," he announced, his expression grim.

Finn knew that.

And he didn't want to be a part of it.

"Are you okay?" Rachel asked kindly.

Puck looked at her for a long moment. "I'm fine," he said, and he offered her a tight smile before he addressed Sam and Finn. "Karofsky's foaming at the mouth." He paused. "Something's got him livid."

"What's that?" Rachel asked.

"It's nothing you got to worry about, doll. But you boys better stick around for a while. The shit's gonna hit the fan sooner or later."

Puck ordered a drink, Finn exchanged a glance with Sam, and then he watched Rachel's expression change from one of confusion to stubborn determination, as if she had decided she _would_ find out what was happening. She didn't even reprimand Puck for crass language.

"Why don't I walk you home now?" Finn asked her. If Karofsky really was angry, and Finn could easily believe he was, then Rachel didn't need to be here for that. Finn had plenty of experience in what happened when Karofsky lost it. "You don't want to stay here too late."

"Why? Because you don't want me here if Karofsky is upset?" Rachel said. "Honestly, what's the worst that can happen? You don't even know _what_ has him upset. No, I'll stay here as long as you do." She crossed her arms stubbornly over her chest.

"Rachel, it's not like that," Finn protested. "But Karofsky has a temper. When he loses it, he _really_ loses it. He —"

"Let her stay," Kurt interrupted, and he closed his notebook. "In fact, want to play a round of something with me, Rachel?" He pulled a deck of cards from his pocket. He saw Finn's glare and dramatically rolled his eyes. "Don't blow your wig, Finn. Rachel's one of us now, anyway." He smiled at Rachel and ordered another Orange Blossom for her.

Rachel looked smugly at Finn, as if she had won. "Do you know how to play War?" she asked Kurt happily, and he nodded and began to deal out the cards between the two of them. Apparently Rachel _had_ won.

"Do you know what the problem is?" Finn murmured to Puck.

"That phone call," Puck replied softly. He glanced at Sam, who leaned in close. "It ain't got nothing to do with us, I don't think, but somebody's gonna get it. And I have a feeling I know who'll be giving it, or at least if you give me three guesses I do."

Finn didn't say anything, and Sam turned away with a tight expression.

The next few hours passed slowly.

The club slowly started to empty. Mercedes came by, and Sam tried to find out what had happened, but she shook her head and claimed she didn't know. Rachel watched the conversation with suspicious eyes. Finn tried again to get her to leave, but she wouldn't.

Maybe she was right.

Maybe nothing _too_ terrible would happen, not here in the club.

But Finn didn't want her to see Karofsky hand a gun to him, either.

Rachel started to grow sleepy, but she still refused to leave. "C'mon," he said, standing and taking her hand. "Let's get out of here. You'll fall asleep on your feet."

"Or the bar room floor, at this rate," Puck said, chewing on his ice.

"Leave her be," Kurt insisted. "This is as close to a night out as she has. Eight. Your turn."

Rachel flipped her card and grinned. "Ha! _Nine. _I've beat you again. That'll —"

"That's enough!" Karofsky shouted suddenly, his voice echoing through the club. "I don't wanna hear another fucking jazz number! Get the fuck off my stage!" Finn watched, anxiety creeping up his spine, as Mr. Schuester hurried to the stage and to the startled band, and they began to pack up as quickly as they had abruptly stopped in the middle of their piece.

"We're closed!" Karofsky yelled, standing turning in a circle. "Get the fuck out!" His face was flushed, his eyes glazed — he was drunk. A few people stood and gathered their coats to leave. Artie didn't move from his booth in the corner, though, and none of Sylvester's girls did, either.

Turner sat stone still at Karofsky's table, and Azimio kept his post by the back door.

Finn and Puck didn't go anywhere.

Kurt didn't even bother to look up from his card game.

Really, the only people left at this point, left as the band went out the stage door and a few old drunks paid Sam and staggered out, were the people who were _always_ left, the people who stayed past closing and were back again by five the next day. Karofsky's people, whether they wanted to be or not.

And Rachel, too.

"I had an interesting call this afternoon!" Karofsky announced. "You hear that?" he said, randomly addressing Brittany, of all people. She looked confused, and Artie patted her arm reassuringly as Karofsky spun away from her, his eyes flashing.

"Old Doc Carl called me up! Had some interesting things to share! You know what he had to say, huh? Who has a guess? What about you, Quinny? Do you have an idea?" He leaned down towards her, his hands on the table and his face so close to hers she glanced uncomfortably to the side.

"Stop it, Davie," she said softly, her voice barely carrying to the bar. "You're drunk."

He smacked her across the face, knocking her from her chair.

"You're damn right, I'm drunk, you fucking little slut!" Karofsky screamed.

Rachel gasped. Finn took her hand, pulling her to her feet. He never should have let her stay here this late, no matter what she said or how much Kurt insisted. Something had set Karofsky off, and Rachel did _not_ need to be here for the fallout. "Come on," he murmured.

She didn't try to protest now.

"Lookie here, Quinny!" Karofsky shouted. "The whole fucking gang's here! Why don't you come clean, kitten? Why don't you tell them what a big fucking _whore_ you are?" He spun around once more, and his eyes landed on Finn. "Where you going, Hudson? Did I say you could leave? _Did I say you could fucking leave?_"

Finn didn't know what to say. He never knew what to say when Karofsky hit his boiling point.

"No, you ain't going anywhere," Karofsky snarled. "You should be here for this. You gotcha yourself a little singer, too." He laughed, and the sound rang through the club and made Finn's stomach clench. "Now, tell me, Hudson," Karofsky said, his eyes narrowing. "Did you know, huh? Did you know what a little cocksucker Quinn was?"

Finn shook his head. What the hell was happening?

"Better be careful, then, with that new girl of yours," Karofsky spat. Rachel's hand began to tremble in his. "Them singers are fucking _whores_!"

No one moved.

The rage rolled off Karofsky in waves as he stalked across the club, pounded a fist on the bar, and screamed for a drink. But then he whirled around suddenly and his eyes narrowed back on Quinn. She had risen to her feet, and she was clutching herself slightly, her eyes wide and terrified.

The right side of her face was swelling.

"Are you just gonna stand there?" Karofsky shouted.

"P-p-please," she mumbled, stepping hesitantly toward him. "I don't understand." He only glared at her. She walked closer, and Finn wanted to scream at her to walk away, to _run_ away, for _all_ of them to run away, but they didn't, because they were all so _fucked_ up. "Davie," she whispered. "What —?"

"Don't _Davie_ me!" Karofsky roared, and he lunged at Quinn, smacking her across the face.

Finn flinched, and he inadvertently drew Rachel closer to him, drew her _behind_ him, as Quinn tumbled into Kurt, who caught her and gave her arm a subtle squeeze of solidarity. She barely had time to stand up straight again, however, before Karofsky grabbed her and shoved her into a seat. "Pour her a drink, too, Sammy!" Karofsky snarled.

Sam nodded quickly, and handed one glass to Karofsky and another to Quinn.

Karofsky had his down in a second, but Quinn didn't touch hers. "What's the matter?" he growled.

"I — don't — I —" She was incoherent.

Karofsky picked up the drink, half of it sloshing to the ground, grabbed Quinn around the _neck, _and forced the alcohol down her throat. She sputtered and coughed, he smacked her across the face yet again, and she tumbled to the ground, sputtering and sobbing.

"Boss," Puck said daringly, stepping forward, "what —?"

"WHO?" Karofsky roared, his eyes trained on Quinn as if no one else were there. "TELL ME THE FUCK WHO!"

Quinn only sobbed, clutching her mouth from where she half lay across the ground, and Finn wanted to go to her, to help her off the ground, to get her away from Karofsky, but he couldn't do any of that. Karofsky grabbed her around the shoulders and yanked her to her feet. She wrapped her arms around her torso, as if to hold herself together, and continued to cry.

"Who?" Karofsky repeated, his voice dark.

"Boss," Puck repeated. "What's happened?"

Slowly, Karofsky looked at Puck. His eyes ran across all of them. "What's happened?" he repeated. "I take _my_ girl to a show, and she faints. _Faints_. So what do I do? Huh?" He looked at Quinn. "What did I do?" he shouted at her. She only sobbed. He turned toward Turner. "What'd I do?" he screamed, spit flying from his mouth.

"Had a doctor look at her, boss," Turner answered.

"That's right," Karofsky answered, and his lip curled. "I had a doctor look at her. You remember that, _Puck_? You were remember that show last night? You remember when I had the doc come by the club? You showed him upstairs, didn't you?"

Puck nodded. "I remember," he murmured, his voice tight.

"Well, now," Karofsky said, "this doc of mine gave me a call. And guess what he had to say? Guess what little _gem_ he had to share!" His eyes were blazing once more as he paused and glared around the room. "Turns out _my _girl had killed the rabbit! Imagine _that_!"

Finn didn't understand. Was that bad?

"Tell me," Karofsky said, "who here knows how my girl — who _I_ ain't ever fucked — got _pregnant_?" The word rang through the club. "Huh? What? Nobody's got an answer?"

No one said a word.

"SOMEBODY ANSWER ME!" he screamed, pounding his fist against the bar. He pulled a gun from his belt and waved it wildly through the air. "You got an answer now?" he shouted. "YOU GOT A FUCKING ANSWER NOW!" He fired the gun into the ceiling, and plaster tumbled down. Finn felt Rachel flinch behind him.

Karofsky had a gun.

And he was mad as hell.

He aimed his gun at Quinn.

The room was frozen.

"Who?" Karofsky said. "Who'd you fuck, girl? Stand up and tell me. STAND UP!"

Shaking, Quinn pushed herself to her feet. "I — don't — it — wasn't —I —" But she couldn't put two words together through her tears, and Karofsky smacked her across the face yet again, this time with the butt of his gun. She crumpled to the ground, clutching her face and sobbing, and Finn took a shaky step forward. Someone had to stop him.

But Karofsky's eyes flew to Finn immediately. "Was it you?" he breathed. "Did you fuck her?" He raised his gun, and Finn shook his head, his breath coming short. "Tell me, Hudson, you fuck my girl? _Answer me_!"

"No! NO!" Rachel had herself plastered in front of him in an instant, as if her tiny body could shield his, and Finn wrapped his arms around her, because he was supposed to protect her, not the other way around, and he tried to drag her back behind him. "Finn hasn't done anything!" Rachel insisted desperately.

Finn picked her up and forced her behind him, but Karofsky had already spun the gun to Sam. "What about you, kid? Did you touch her? _Did you fuck her_?"

"No, sir," Sam said quickly, shaking his head. "I wouldn't dare."

"THEN WHO WOULD?" Karofsky roared, and suddenly he went after Quinn again. "Stop crying," he told her, "and tell me who the hell you spread your legs for, you little _slut_! WHO DID YOU FUCK?" He shook her, and then he smacked her again, and again, and Finn flinched and tightened his grasp on Rachel, who was pressed to his back, her fingers curled into fistfuls of his shirt.

"Enough!" Puck shouted suddenly, his whole body shaking. "Leave her the fuck alone! You wanna know who it was? You wanna fucking know?" His eyes were dark and furious and he looked ready to kill Karofsky, even as Karofsky raised his gun to Puck, and —

"Azimio!" Quinn screamed, her eyes wild.

Finn's heart stopped. Did she mean —?

Karofsky turned to her. "What did you say?" he breathed.

"It was him, it was Azimio," Quinn said, hiccoughing and trembling and a bloodied mess, even as she raised her hand and pointed at a stunned Azimio. "He — he — was all over me! He _r-raped_ me! He —!"

"Boss, I ain't _ever_ —!"

Karofsky fired.

And Azimio dropped to the ground, a bullet in his forehead, as the whole club stood frozen.

Quinn clutched her mouth, rocking slightly as tears continued to stream down her face. Finn could feel Rachel trembling against him, her face pressed into the small of his back. Nobody spoke. "You better find a place to live," Karofsky spat at Quinn. "You ain't living off me anymore."

He glanced suddenly at Finn, then at Puck. "Clean this up," he snarled. "Turner," he said, glancing at the blank-faced jerk who stood beside Azimio. "Let's go."

And, stumbling slightly on drunk legs, Karofsky stalked out of the club, Turner behind him.

Mercedes moved first. Her expression conflicted, she stepped hesitantly toward Quinn, and then she was beside her, and she wrapped her arms around her. "Quinn," she murmured. But Quinn pushed her back, even as her sobs once more wracked her body. And Finn watched in amazement as Puck knelt down beside her.

"Baby," he whispered, and he gathered her up in his arms. She didn't push him away. She only sobbed harder. "It'll be okay, sweetheart, I promise — I'll make it okay."

"And when that baby ain't born black?" Mercedes asked him softly. He didn't reply, but he pressed a soft kiss to Quinn's hair. He was the father, then. Finn couldn't believe it. Puck had slept with Quinn. How could Puck be so stupid?

But then Puck lifted Quinn up, cradling her to him. "She can't stay with me," he murmured. "He'll know. Can she —?" He glanced around the club, and Finn had never seen that look on his face, that worried, desperate, _broken_ look.

"She can stay with me," Mercedes murmured. Puck nodded.

Mercedes led the way, and Puck followed her out of the club with Quinn in his arms.

He actually cared about her. Noah Puckerman cared about another human being. Finn felt as if he'd been hit over the head with something. Repeatedly. Puck was in love with Quinn, who was pregnant and now all on her own but for the rest of them stuck in this god-forsaken place. And Azimio was dead.

Finn's eyes fell on the body that lay in the middle of the club.

He needed to take care of that. Puck was already gone. He glanced at Sam, who nodded, and Finn turned and disentangled himself from Rachel. Her face was white, and she looked so shaken his heart nearly broke with the sight. She had probably never seen anything even close to as terrible as this. He cupped her face. "You okay?"

Her eyes met and held his. She nodded slowly. She tried to smile.

"He won't touch you," Finn promised.

"I know," Rachel murmured.

"I'll walk you home, okay? Can you wait for me?" He glanced around. She shouldn't be alone. He spied Artie. "Sit with Artie," he told her. "He always likes the company." He took her hand to lead her over to Artie's booth.

But she hesitated.

"What're you —?" Her gaze flew to Azimio. She swallowed thickly. "Should we call the police?"

"That's not how it works," Kurt said. His face was grim. "Turner and Azimio might be, or might have_ been_, Karofsky's most loyal minions, might actually _respect_ him, but he has another three dozen people who did his bidding, if for nothing more than money, and you'll never be able to make a case against him."

Kurt's gaze bored into Rachel.

"But we could all —" Rachel began.

"Sit with Artie, over here," Finn said, tugging on her arm. Artie smiled at her, as did Brittany, and she sat with wide, confused eyes. She really didn't understand any of this, and Finn didn't _want_ her to understand any of it, understand that Karofsky's most loyal minions were mostly still in this room, were — were _them_.

"Finn," Sam said, nodding at the body.

It didn't take long. They had done this before. Mr. Schuester fetched some tarp from the back room. There were a few of Karofsky's boys skulking around behind the club, and they helped, too. Finn tried not to feel Rachel's gaze on him the entire time, and he was grateful when Sam murmured that he would take care of the rest.

Finn washed his hands at the bar, and he watched Mr. Schuester, his face white and his eyes dull, try to scrub the blood off the floor. A glint of gold on the floor caught Finn's eye, and after a moment he realised it was a piece of jewellery, probably something of Quinn's.

Determination solidified in Finn's gut, and he slowly headed back to Rachel.

"I've always really wanted one," Brittany said, apparently happily in conversation with Rachel.

"Always really wanted what?" Finn asked.

"A cat," Rachel told him, and her eyes were still shining with ten thousand questions as she looked up at him. He dropped her gaze.

"Me, too, Britt," he said kindly, because if Brittany could be happy after all that, then he wouldn't do anything to discourage her. He nodded at Artie and held his hand out to Rachel. "Let's go," he said.

She took his hand silently, let him help her put on her coat silently, and left the club with him silently. She didn't even acknowledge when Kurt called goodbye. As they started down the street, she was silent still. She didn't say a word, in fact, until they stood outside her house. "I don't understand," she finally whispered. "Why didn't anyone do anything? Puck has a gun, doesn't he? And Sam keeps one behind the bar, right?"

"Those guns aren't to stop Karofsky," Finn muttered.

"Then what are they for?" Rachel demanded. "Finn, I know you have your secrets, and I know you're afraid of Karofsky, but —"

"No, Rachel, you don't know," he said. "You don't have any idea. Those guns _are_ for him — for his _bidding_, don't you understand?" He scrubbed a hand over his face. "Rachel, I don't want you to come back to McKinley's."

"But —"

"I don't to see you again ever, either." He didn't let his voice tremble.

She stared at him as if he had lost his mind. "Finn," she began softly, "we talked about —"

"That was before I had a wake-up call to bring me to my senses!" he exclaimed. "Sweet Jesus, Rachel, don't make this harder." He grit his teeth. "How can you even want anything to do with the club and with _me_ after that, anyway? He beat the shit out of Quinn! He killed Azimio without a second thought, and Quinn _knew_ he would! She knew he would kill _somebody_, we all did, and she picked the person she cared about least.

"We knew someone would die, _we all did_, and we didn't try to stop it."

"But _why_ didn't you?" she whispered.

"Because we couldn't!" he said. Didn't she see that? Did he have to spell it out for her? "And Karofsky, he was so drunk and so angry and — and when he loses his temper, he goes crazy. He shot of the few people who's loyal to him for the sake of it, just 'cause Quinn screamed his name. He's _crazy_! And we can't do nothing about it."

"But _why_?" She was nearly in tears.

"Because he _owns_ us, Rachel, like I said. That isn't a line. I don't owe him a little money. I owe him thousands of dollars. I've been living off him for years. And four years ago, when Puck and I were broke and desperate and he had broken his wrist and would never box again, we. . . ."

He had to do this. He had to _make_ her understand.

"What?" Her voice was little more than a breath.

"Puck had this plan. It was supposed to make everything okay. He said plenty of folks got away with it, and he had connections." He looked away from her. He _couldn't_ look at her. "We held up a bank, Rachel."

"Held up a bank?" she repeated, as if she didn't understand.

"That's right," he whispered. "We had guns and everything. I didn't know what the fuck I was doing. I didn't . . ." He swallowed back tears, because he wasn't going to cry now, he _wasn't_. "Karofsky protected us. He had this whole band of people come storming up, shooting everywhere, and he got us out, me and Puck and my old school buddy, Matt.

"Then he . . . he gave evidence in court, like some up-standing fucking citizen, and he got the other three guys involved all put behind bars, as if to prove he could do it to us, too. And when Matt told him to go fuck himself, Karofsky had Turner and a few other hopped up boys beat the shit of him, and then he . . . he _shot_ him."

_There_.

It was quiet.

Rachel reached out and touched his arm gently. "Oh, Finn . . ." she whispered.

He looked at her, and he couldn't believe the pity that rested there. It wasn't possible. This was the part where she walked away and _stayed_ away. "You need to stay the fuck away from McKinley's," he told her. "You have to."

"Finn —"

"I mean it, Rachel."

"And let you go alone into the belly of the beast everyday?"

"I'm not your responsibility," he said.

"You're my —"

"_Nothing_," he insisted. "I mean it, Rachel. I don't want to see you again."

"You only mean to protect me," she said, "but I —"

"Maybe I mean to protect you," he breathed, "but I mean to protect _me_, too, 'cause at this rate, Rachel, you're going to fuck us all over! You don't know from nothing, and if you keep up like this then it's not gonna be some jerk like Azimio who gets a bullet next."

He had to do this. He _had_ to.

"You think you can make it to Broadway and be famous and wave and smile and it'll all be easy. It won't. You're completely crazy, and that fucking hat was crazy, and I don't _want_ you at Karofsky's. You were fun for a while, but you're not one of us, and you don't have the stomach to become one of us. Stay out of this."

"Finn," she whispered.

He started to walk away. She reached for him, touching his jacket, and he tore away from her. "Don't touch me," he snarled. And she actually stumbled away from him. He kept his act together until he rounded the corner, and then he nearly collapsed against the wall. He couldn't believe he had said all that to her.

But it was what she needed to hear.

She would be better off far away from all this — tonight proved that.

And he would have been better off if she had never come to McKinley's in the first place.

**tbc.**

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_a/n: brownie points to goodbeans and Bueller, both of whom guessed why Finn never showed up for the date. brownie points to no one for guessing who Karofsky would kill. A lot of people thought I might kill Rachel, which I thought was crazy, because I definitely didn't think I had implied anything like that. (And I LOVE happy endings like a crackhead loves crack, for future reference.) After I kept receiving reviews that told me not to kill Rachel, though, I had my roommate read that section with Kurt and Blaine, and she said I definitely implied it would be Rachel. *sigh* That was not my intention, I promise. Anyway, please continue to review and leave your speculation :)_


	5. Chapter 5

_a/n: One week exactly — what'd I say? Of course, I intended to update "When The World Comes Down" before I updated this, but somehow I find this so much easier to write. And, erm, I have something to confess. I may have, well, um, started reading Puckleberry fic. And . . . it's kind of winning me over. But this story is so separate, in my mind, anyway, from what's happening on the show right now, so it's easier to stay with Finchel. Does that make any sense? Oh, well. I guess we'll see. Anyway, this chapter comes with a slight disclaimer, or reminder, really. This story is rated M. Okay. That's all._

* * *

She didn't have the patience for this.

She hadn't slept well in days, not since Sunday, and she hadn't seen Finn even _once_, and everyone around the club seemed afraid to speak with her. Everything had been so _wonderful_ on Sunday afternoon, as if the worst had passed. It hadn't. And now she had to sit there, and she couldn't do anything but glare into her Orange Blossom and pretend not to see the girl leaning her elbows against the bar and thrusting her chest out.

"Still around?" Santana asked, turning to Rachel with a sly look.

"Clearly," Rachel said.

"And what about Finny?" Santana asked. "I thought you were his girl now. He didn't grow bored of you _already_, did he? Is that why he's avoided this place the last few days — he give you the icy mitt, princess?"

"San, you need something?" Sam asked, glaring at her.

Santana rolled her eyes at the interruption, but Rachel offered Sam a tight smile. "It's fine," she told him. She turned slightly in her seat to face Santana. "_Do_ you need something?" she asked. "Or do you merely want to razz me about matters of which you know nothing?"

Santana chuckled and sat, as if that were an invitation. Rachel pursed her lips.

"I told you that you didn't want to be in a place like this," Santana said. "But you didn't listen to little ol' me." She smirked, and her voice was low and taunting as she went on. "You looked a little white last Sunday when Karofsky lost his temper. I suppose there weren't fellows like him back in your small, lovely Ohio town?"

"What do you _want_?" Rachel snapped.

And, to her surprise, something in Santana's face changed. Santana glanced over to see that Sam had moved down the bar to speak with someone else, and then she turned back to Rachel and leaned a little closer. "Honest? I wanted to warn you. And you should listen to me, because Quinn didn't, and everyone knows how _that_ turned out."

Rachel knew she shouldn't even _entertain_ a word Santana said, but she couldn't help herself now. "Warn me about what?" she asked, trying not to seem as if she really cared.

But Santana smiled knowingly, as if she knew that she had Rachel's full attention now. "Karofsky," she said.

Rachel scoffed and turned away to drink the rest of her Orange Blossom. She didn't need _Santana_ to warn her about Karofsky. But Santana kept her cold gaze on Rachel. "Listen to me," Santana said, her voice low. "Why do you think it is that Quinn was with Karofsky for over a year, yet he never cared that she wouldn't sleep with him?"

Rachel frowned. Upstanding people simply didn't talk about things like _that_ in public. "That really isn't any of our business," she told Santana.

"You should make it yours."

"Look, if you want to warn me — if you want to _help_ me, then why don't you come out with it already?" Rachel demanded, frustrated.

And to her surprise, Santana actually said her piece. "He doesn't like birds, Berry," Santana hissed, "but he still needs to act like he does, which means he needs a pretty little thing on his arm. And if Quinn Fabray isn't available, he'll take the next best thing." She paused meaningfully.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Rachel asked.

"Think about it," Santana said, and she drew back, all emotion gone from her voice. "And be careful. For whatever reason, Hudson isn't interested in looking after you anymore. That's probably for the best, anyway. For him, at least. It's not like he would have been able to help you even if he'd tried."

Rachel only glared, and Santana shrugged, smirked, and sauntered off.

"She has a kind of style, if nothing else," Kurt said, and Rachel looked over at him in surprise. When had he arrived? He simply smiled and gestured to Sam for a drink

"Style, maybe," Rachel said, "but certainly not class."

"No," Kurt agreed, "not class."

She waited to see him pull out his notebook as he slipped into the seat beside her, but he only accepted a drink from Sam and faced Rachel calmly. "Do you know what she meant to imply?" he asked her. At her frown, he shrugged a little sheepishly. "I might have overheard a few things . . . _not_ accidentally."

"I'm not entirely sure, to be honest," Rachel admitted.

"Karofsky never really liked Quinn," Kurt said, an explanation clearly forming on his tongue. Apparently, not only had he listened in on their conversation, but he also happened to understand what Santana meant to imply. "He took her to shows and had her sit at his table, and he put her up in a nice place, but he never cared for her, not even remotely, not even . . . _physically_."

He paused, as if to let his words sink in. "He simply needed a moll. And now that he can't have her, Santana seems to suspect he'll turn to . . . you."

"Turn to me?" Rachel said, barely able to comprehend the suggestion. "As in — he'll want _me_ to be his girl?" No. She had misunderstood.

"You can say no, but you can't expect to sing on that stage another night if you do."

"But he doesn't . . . why would he — I don't —" None of this made any sense.

"Rachel," Kurt said, and he lowered his voice. "Can I trust you?"

Silently, she nodded. Kurt was sweet and funny, but of everyone at McKinley's he seemed to be the least affected by everything that happened, as if to him it were all a boring show that went on continually around him. Now, though, she wondered if he were as tied up in all of this as Finn and Sam and, well, maybe Rachel, too.

"He's like me, Rachel," Kurt murmured.

"Like you?" Rachel repeated.

"You know how I am," Kurt told her. "I know you do."

It only took her a moment to understand. Her eyes went wide. "How do you know?" she whispered.

"That he is?" Kurt asked. She nodded. "The way he treats me, mostly," he said. "He watches me sometimes. He talks to me as if _I_ was his girl. He never goes very far — I would never come back here if I honestly thought I were in danger — but, believe me, I _know_."

Rachel couldn't believe this. If this were all true, why _did_ Kurt continue to come here? And even if it weren't true, why did he come here? Of course, if he were right, then that would explain why Karofsky didn't seem at all bothered that Kurt was still there when he lost his mind, but. . . .

But _surely_ she must have misunderstood.

"So you — you meant to say that he kept Quinn on his arm . . . to make it seem as if he _weren't, _well, you know?" she asked slowly.

"That's right," Kurt said, nodding.

"And now Santana, and you, too, think he'll want the same from me?" she said. But she didn't let him answer. "Why me, though?" she went on. "I'm certainly not as attractive as Quinn."

"You're something of a looker," Kurt disagreed. "And you've got a certain charm and innocence, as well. You have real talent, too, and you'd look pretty all dolled-up and at a show." He smiled a little, but she really didn't care about his compliments now.

She didn't know what to say. There _had_ to be an alternative. This couldn't be real. "I really _should_ find another job, shouldn't I? But Finn. . . ." If she left McKinley's, she would never see him again. And she_ had _to see him again. He was. . . .

She still came to the club every night, and she still arrived rather early, and she could tell herself it was for her job. But it wasn't. It was for Finn. She knew how pathetic that made her. She knew how pathetic it was for her to have her heart already so wrapped up in the idea of a man she barely knew. She knew how pathetic it was that she came to this club everyday hoping he would finally come, too, and she could win him back.

Finn _did_ have to return to the club eventually, though. He couldn't stay away forever, not if Karofsky had as tight a grip on him as Finn claimed. As if he knew her thoughts, Kurt spoke softly. "Finn can't avoid this place forever," he said. "And maybe he can leave with you. Maybe you can both get out."

"He doesn't seem to think so," Rachel said quietly. And what if he really didn't want to? What if his words to her on Sunday night were true? What if he thought she was simply too much to handle? But if he _were_ scared, if his words came only out of his attempt to protect her, then. . . . But he was so _stubborn_.

"There's a way for us to make it out of here," Kurt said, drawing her attention back to him. She wanted to ask what reason _he_ had to be trapped her, but he went on before she could. "There's a way for you to make it out of here, and for him to make it out with you — for _all_ of us to make it out."

There was a sly look in his eye, and Rachel felt as if she were missing something. She had said more or less the very same fact to Finn, yet somehow there was more to it when the words came from Kurt, as if he knew something she didn't. She frowned, but Kurt only grinned widely as his attention turned to something else. Rachel followed his gaze to see Mercedes, walking towards the bar with an annoyed look on her face.

"Apparently," she exclaimed, "tonight's the night for rummies to flood the place and annoy the hell outta me. I swear, this place brings in the _worst_."

"Poor baby," Kurt teased. She reached out to smack him across the back of the head, but he deftly ducked. "How's the next great American novel coming along?" she asked, sighing and plopping into a seat beside Rachel.

He shrugged. "It isn't, tonight. I have to head out, actually. I only came by for a quick belt and a quicker hello. I'll be by tomorrow for your show, though, Rachel. Think about what I said." She barely had time to nod before he downed the rest of his drink, waved lazily to Sam, and left.

She _would_ think about what he said, and she would try to make sense of it.

"He sure made tracks outta here," Mercedes observed. Rachel only nodded. "You okay, girl?" Mercedes asked kindly. "You haven't been your usual bright, bubbly self lately."

Rachel shrugged.

"He's avoiding the place, you know," Mercedes murmured, her voice growing even softer. "He came by Monday morning, was zozzled by noon, and then he told as much to Sam. He wants to avoid you." She paused. "But he can't avoid McKinley's forever. Stick with it."

"Stick with what?" Rachel asked, a little bitter despite herself. She didn't like to be bitter, because she knew it didn't do anyone good, least of all herself, but she couldn't help it. "It isn't as if he'll come by, see me, and his resolve will break. He doesn't want to be with me."

"Aw, you know he does," Mercedes said gently. "He simply wants to protect you more. Damn fool doesn't know any better. Doesn't know that his best chance to take care of you is if he's _with_ you. Men. Stupid saps, all of them."

"He thinks I need to leave McKinley's altogether," Rachel told her. She turned to Mercedes, letting the words pour out of her, desperately hoping Mercedes would know what to say, what to do to make . . . _everything_ right. Rachel hadn't spoken to anyone, really, about what had happened, about all the dizzying feelings that kept her up every night and made her fight back tears every morning. "And he knows if he's with me, I won't leave," she said.

"Can you leave, with or without him?" Mercedes asked. "There ain't jobs growing on trees out there. It's a trip for biscuits 'round here."

"Exactly," Rachel said. "But Finn doesn't seem to see it that way."

Mercedes sighed, and she touched Rachel's shoulder affectionately. "Stupid sap, what'd I say?" she murmured, as if for a smile. Rachel tried to muster a small one. She supposed maybe it _didn't_ much help to talk about it all. Mercedes glanced across the club at something and then looked back at Rachel sadly. "I'm sorry," she said, and Rachel only offered her another weak smile before Mercedes squeezed her shoulder again and stood to leave and serve someone else.

Rachel took another sip of Orange Blossom.

"Here," Sam said quietly. She looked up at him and then at the magazine in his hands.

"_Ladies' Home Journal_?" she said, surprised.

He shrugged. "You haven't brought anything to read in days. I thought if you had to sit there, you might want something to do, especially since Kurt hasn't been around much lately. He didn't even last a whole five minutes today. Anyway, just — here." He held it out.

"Oh, Sam," she said. She couldn't reconcile the man who had carried a dead body from the club five nights ago with the man who sweetly held a magazine out to her now and couldn't even meet her gaze. He was like Finn, really. He didn't deserve any of this. "Thank you," she whispered. He shrugged bashfully and went to help someone else.

She tried to focus on a few articles, but nothing could hold her attention.

And she constantly looked at the door, because maybe _tonight_ Finn would finally come.

He hadn't yet, though.

Why did he have to do this to her? _Why_?

She knew why. But. . . .

A little past eight, Karofsky appeared, and he glanced at Rachel as he and a few large, brutish men went to his usual table. Since Sunday he had glanced at her every night when he arrived, and usually she waved slightly and smiled nervously, because he was still her boss and the more he put her on stage, the more money she could make, and the sooner she — and maybe, possibly, _hopefully_ Finn, too — could leave. But she avoided Karofsky's eyes this time, because. . . .

_Because_.

"Find any good recipes?" Sam asked, checking in on her.

She quickly looked at the article open in front of her now. "This one with the black-eyed peas sounds good. They're so Southern, I know, but I've always liked them. And, you know, the secret is extra butter." She smiled a little. "I should write to the magazine and tell them that."

He nodded, smiled encouragingly, and left. She let herself sink back down in her seat. She glanced at the door. Finn still hadn't come.

If she found a way to help him break out of this place, what about Sam? She didn't even know his story, but he had to have one. And what about Mercedes? What about Kurt? She _really_ wanted to know his past. He didn't deserve this place, either. Her mind travelled to Quinn, too, and to Puck. She had seen him a few times since Sunday, and every time he saw her he nodded politely but distantly.

Finn said Puck had been the one to suggest they hold up a bank.

Rachel wanted to hate Puck for that.

But they way he had cradled Quinn to him on Sunday . . . he couldn't possibly be too terrible. Somebody who could love another person like that couldn't be an entirely horrible person. She wouldn't believe that, she simply wouldn't. How would Puck escape this place?

The next few hours passed slowly, and Rachel managed to read every article in the magazine. When Mr. Schuster came back to the bar for a drink, he smiled sadly at Rachel and she tried to strike up a conversation. He listened and nodded and told her he had once wanted to perform, too, but things never seemed to work out the way he planned.

She didn't want to become Will Schuster.

She didn't want Finn to become him, either.

Karofsky left. Rachel avoided his gaze. She would be here for a few more hours, she knew, because Sam always walked her home now, and he _couldn't_ leave for a few more hours yet. She had decided to go back to the kitchens and find Tina for a chat, but she was barely out of her seat before Mercedes had a hand on her. "C'mon, dolly," she said, "come home with me."

"Home with you?" Rachel repeated, startled.

"That's right," Mercedes said breezily, nodding as she pulled on a coat and handed Rachel hers. "I'm sure that lady you stay with can spare you for a night. And I'll cook us up something better than the slosh they serve at this joint." She paused. "We can talk, too."

Rachel smiled a little. That really did sound nice, actually. Mrs. Baxter _would_ worry if she woke and realised Rachel hadn't returned that night, but Rachel liked the idea of an evening with a friend. And, no, it wasn't really evening any longer, but Rachel still slipped on her coat and waved to Sam as she left with Mercedes. "Do you live far from here?" she asked.

"Far enough," Mercedes said. The first few blocks were quiet. "You know," Mercedes finally said, "I've never been much of the sentimental sort."

Rachel looked at her curiously, waiting for more.

"My mama and daddy got along well enough, sure, but I'd never really felt all jittery for a fellow myself, and I'd never thought I'd let some drugstore cowboy sweep me off my feet only for me to spend the rest of my days doing his laundry."

Rachel didn't know what to say. "I've always had a more romantic outlook," she admitted.

"Oh, I can't imagine that," Mercedes replied. Rachel frowned, but Mercedes had a small, teasing smirk on her face, and Rachel chuckled a little at her own expense. "Anyway," Mercedes went on, "I'm not saying it's bad. 'Cause I fell for one, eventually. I don't know how. Kid just got to me. And I gave up all these big hopes and dreams I had to be like Billie Holiday, 'cause damn if that boy didn't make me forget about everything but him."

"What happened?" Rachel asked softly.

Mercedes shrugged. "Not much of anything," she said. "I stuck around long after I planned, and he still hates it, I think. He still says there's a better life for me out there, but I've already dug my heels in."

"Oh," Rachel said. Did that mean Mercedes stayed at _McKinley's_ for a boy? Had Rachel met him? The idea occurred to her suddenly, and she nearly paused in the street as she looked at Mercedes. "Wait, Mercedes do you — do you mean . . . _Sam_?" She'd never have imagined.

Mercedes laughed at the look on Rachel's face. "I know, right?" she said. "I don't fall for just anybody, nope. I go and fall for the whitest white boy you'd ever see. I don't know how it happened. Just did. And I sure as hell can't go asking for explanations, since most people don't know. Black on white's pretty much a crime no matter where you go."

"People are stupid," Rachel declared, still a little taken aback. "I think you and Sam go together perfectly."

Mercedes merely smiled, as if indulging Rachel. "I'll tell him you said so."

"Does . . . does Karofsky know?" Rachel asked quietly.

"He knows," Mercedes told her. "Why do you think he's got a hold on me? 'Cause he knows he owns Sam, and he knows as long as I love Sam, he owns me, too."

Rachel only nodded.

They reached Mercedes apartment, and Mercedes led Rachel up six flights of steps. They were both panting by the time they reached her door. Her place was small, like Finn's, but it had rosebud wallpaper and a few rugs and plush chairs, and it felt like a place Rachel could call home. "This is nice," she said.

"I like to think so," Mercedes replied. She pulled off her jacket and tossed it onto a sofa. Rachel did the same. "You want me to make you up some tea or something? You seem like the kind that likes tea."

"That'd be lovely, actually," Rachel said, sitting carefully at the kitchen table. There were pictures all around, too, and Rachel didn't recognise most of the people in them, but she did see one with Sam. She stared at his wide smile, at his arm around Mercedes, at how very _happy_ they both looked. But who had taken that picture? And . . .? "How often do you spend time with him? I mean, only him — only Sam?" Rachel said.

"Sam?" Mercedes asked, putting a pot on. She shrugged. "He comes by some nights. I sometimes bring something to eat by his place and we have breakfast. It isn't a life, I know, but it's what we've got." Her words reminded Rachel of Finn.

Mercedes lived in limbo, too, like Finn, like Sam, like all of them, as if they could do nothing but wait for something better to come along and make everything okay. And it _wasn't_ a way to live. But Rachel certainly didn't have any brilliant ideas of what else to do about it all.

Her mind flickered suddenly to Quinn. Shouldn't she be here? She glanced at the two doors off to the side. How would Quinn treat Rachel now that they were on equal footing — if that's what they were? Mercedes sat down across from Rachel, and she seemed to read her mind. "Quinn's asleep," she said. "Girl barely leaves bed these day." She sighed. "It'll take some time, I suspect."

"What'll happen to her?" Rachel asked quietly.

"If only I knew," Mercedes replied, shaking her head. She titled her head, then, as she gazed at Rachel. "If she'd stayed away from Puck, she'd be a lot better off. That's about all I do know. But, you know, where would she have been there? Sitting with fat old Karofsky, not with the man she loved, and her future as much in the air as it is now?"

Rachel didn't know what to say, but Mercedes had this gleam in her eye.

"Look, Rachel, there's something we all got at McKinley's. It's the only thing we've got, and it's what keeps us sane. We all got somebody. I got Sam, and he's got me. Mike and Tina, they've got each other. Quinn's got Puck now, and say what you want about the boy, but he loves her. And she loves him, too." She paused. "You met Artie, too, didn't you? He's even got a girl who loves him.

"Anybody can live on not much at all," she said, "but no matter what they ain't got, everybody needs at least one somebody."

Rachel swallowed thickly. She'd wanted to talk about all of this with Mercedes earlier, and she still did, but she didn't want to cry in front of her, she really didn't. "Who does Finn have?" Rachel whispered.

"Nobody," Mercedes answered softly. "At least, he had nobody 'til you came along." The way she spoke, the look in her eyes, as if Rachel had done something so wonderful for Finn, as if Rachel had changed his life and made everything better —

Rachel would not cry. She would _not_. "He doesn't want me."

"You don't believe that," Mercedes said, her voice certain. But she paused. "You think Sam likes that I've tied myself to him and can't go anywhere for it? You think Quinn wanted to fall for a boy who's all trouble? You think Artie doesn't wish he could actually take care of his girl?"

Rachel looked at her hands. "I don't know much about Artie, to be honest," she said. She had only met him that one time, and, okay, this wasn't really the conversation Mercedes wanted to have, but. . . .

. . . but Mercedes indulged her. "He was going somewhere in life," Mercedes said. "Boy has brains, see. I've never met anybody as smart as he is. He was in an accident, though, 'bout six years ago, now, I think. He was in a car with his mama, and they both went to the hospital. His legs never worked proper again. She was fine, I think, in the end, but the hospital bills were too much for them, even back before the Depression hit. He asked around, looked for help, and all he found was Karofsky."

"He took money from Karofsky?" Rachel asked. She could guess how this ended.

"Didn't have much of a choice," Mercedes said, sighing once more. "Anyway, he still owes thousands. He works for Karofsky now, helps him with finances some, to pay off the debt, but he can't find any other job, so there's no way he'll pay it all off anytime soon. He mostly just sits around McKinley's now and lets Brittany keep him company, 'cause that Betty makes him smile, for whatever reason."

Rachel really didn't need one more thing to feel sad over.

The tea whistle blew suddenly, and Mercedes went to take the kettle off. When she returned to the table, she slid a cup to Rachel. "You really do know everybody's stories, don't you?" Rachel asked, because she had to say _something_.

"I don't know yours," Mercedes said.

What should Rachel say?

"And I'm not asking for it," Mercedes went on. "Well, not right now, I'm not, anyway." She smiled a little. "Look, I just wanted to make you see something: Finn's just scared, 'cause he knows everybody's stories, too, and he doesn't want you to end up like me, stuck in this place. But the boy needs you, he does, like Sam needs me, and Artie needs Brittany, and, hell, like Quinn needs Puck."

She blew on her tea, then, and cautiously took a sip, and it seemed as if she had indeed wanted to make that one point, and now that she'd made it she didn't have much else to say. It was quiet for a long time. "Would you take it back?" Rachel whispered at last. "If you knew what would happen, if back then you had possessed any idea what would come next, would you change anything?" She traced the rim of her cup.

"Rachel, girl, I _still_ don't know what comes next. The only damn think I know about tomorrow is that it'll come. Maybe I trapped myself here before I realised what it meant, and maybe if I knew then what I know now I _would_ do things differently. But . . . but if the only way you've got the guts to jump into the water is with your eyes squeezed shut, then squeeze 'em shut."

There was a long pause.

"Do you love him?" Mercedes asked.

Rachel's heart clenched.

Slowly, she looked up from her tea to meet Mercedes's gaze.

"I think I might," she confessed. "He's . . . I've never felt this way before. It's like you said — jittery. I feel jittery, and nobody's every made me feel that way before. He was the first person to kiss me, you know, and he makes me want . . ." She blushed a little, because those thoughts weren't meant for decent conversation.

_Did_ she love him? Could she already?

Mercedes only smiled. "I can't tell you what to do. But I can tell you this. Finn does care for you, no matter what he said. He only means to protect you. And if you love him, if you really do — and make sure you do before you become tangled up in all of this — then I'd say stick around."

Was it really that easy?

"Kurt said, though," Rachel murmured, "he said that Karofsky might. . . ."

"Karofsky might do a lotta things, doll," Mercedes said. "Don't let it keep you up at night. Trust me. It's a waste of time to try to guess what that old jerk has in mind for us all next." She spoke so confidently, as if it _were_ all so easy, and Rachel decided then that Mercedes was brave. Maybe it wasn't easy, but if you were brave enough to jump in anyway, then it didn't matter how easy it was or wasn't, did it?

Rachel wanted to be brave.

"I have to go," she murmured, her resolve solidifying even as she spoke.

Mercedes's eyebrows rose, as if in question. Rachel didn't want to talk anymore, though. "Thank you," Rachel said, standing. "Thank you for everything. You're the best friend I've ever had, really. But I need to do something."

Mercedes only nodded.

* * *

He tried to sleep.

He failed.

The apartment was too hot already, and the summer had barely begun. His sheets were left rumpled at the bottom of the bed, he had the windows open to let in a breeze that didn't exist, and he still tossed and turned. It wasn't late, sure, and if this were any other Thursday from the last six years, he would be at McKinley's right now, drinking as much as Sam would give him.

He groaned and punched his pillow.

He hated McKinley's.

But there was nowhere he wanted to be now more than there.

Because _she_ was there.

Frustrated, Finn threw off his covers and stood. Fine. He wouldn't sleep, then. He'd make himself something to eat. He shuffled to the kitchen, only to realise that he barely had any food around. He found a beer, though, and he popped the lid off.

There was a knock on the door. Finn winced. It had to be Puck. Karofsky obviously wasn't pleased that Finn had avoided McKinley's all week, and the jerk had sent Puck to tell Finn off and make sure Finn showed up tomorrow. Finn didn't want to show up tomorrow. If Rachel were still coming to McKinley's — and he was pretty sure she was — then she'd actually be up on stage tomorrow night.

He could _not_ handle that. He just couldn't.

The knocking continued, growing even louder, and he thought of the last time someone had pounded on his front door. Rachel. She had _broken_ in, had actually shoved her shoulder so hard against the old door that she'd popped the lock. He hadn't even bothered to fix it yet, actually, so Puck would probably come storming through any minute.

Finn wouldn't have that. Puck needed to leave Finn the fuck alone.

Finn stomped to the door and tore it open. "Dammit, Puck, I'm fucking sleeping —" He choked on his own words. For the second time, Rachel had come to his apartment.

He should have seen this coming.

But he hadn't, and now she stood at his door now in her little blue dress, and he couldn't breath. She looked as if she wanted to say something, and he was positive she had a speech prepared, but she stood there wordlessly, and he realised he had nothing but his briefs on.

His eyes went wide. "I — Rachel — just — wait a minute —" He tried to shut the door.

Her senses seemed to return, however, and she shoved the door backward, pushing past him. Her hand pressed against his bare stomach, and it burned his skin. "No," she said, her back to him. She took a deep breath. "I won't wait." She wrung her hands slightly as she spun to face him once more, and he could _see_ the determination solidify on her face.

It kind of squeezed his heart in the most painful way, because hell if she wasn't the most perfect broad anywhere in this lousy city — no, anywhere _period_, and there wasn't a thing about her that he didn't adore. Even the look on her face now, the resolve — but she shouldn't be here. She knew that. He did, too. "Rachel," he said.

"I've decided that you have no _right_ to tell me what is or is not good for me. My life is my own, and I make my own choices. And if you think you can dictate what I do and I won't make a single protest, then you, Finn Hudson, are absolutely _nuts_."

She straightened as she faced him, as if daring him to argue.

"Rachel —"

"I haven't finished," she cut in. "I — you said you didn't ever want to see me again because I was crazy and —" Her firm expression seemed to splinter a little. "—But I know I'm crazy, and I happen to think you don't mind one bit, and I'm already in too deep to let your chivalrous nature tear us apart. Do you hear me? I'm already in too deep." And then she gazed at him with those big, bright brown eyes.

"No," he murmured, "no, you're not, not yet."

He had known she wouldn't buy his line. He had known she wouldn't give up easy. But he thought if he avoided McKinley's, he would hurt her enough that maybe she might decide he wasn't worth it, but . . . but he didn't really want to hurt her, and she was here now, and. . . . Damn it, he didn't know how to do this.

"You can get outta here, Rachel," he said. "But you gotta go soon, go _now_, and never look back. And I'll — I'll hold you back, and I know that sounds like a line, but I promise you it's not, I promise you if you just listen to me for one minute —"

She kissed him.

She rushed at him, she gripped his shoulders and pushed herself up on her tiptoes, and she pressed her lips hotly to his. For a moment he stood motionless, too taken aback, but his lips slowly began to move of their own accord, as if they knew better than his brain. He licked her lips, they opened under his, and she whimpered a little into his mouth. Heat flushed him. His fingers dug into her waist and he pulled her flush against him, even as she broke the kiss.

Panting, he stared at her and she held his gaze as if she wouldn't dare look away. He could see each of her dark eyelashes. She was all he could see.

"You're wrong," she breathed. "You're so wrong. I can't go anywhere with you. I can't be anyone without you."

"_Rachel_." His voice broke on her name.

"Because I love you," she said. The words sank into his skin and lit something up inside him, made it hard to think or to breath or to do anything. He stared at her. No. It wasn't possible. She couldn't possibly —

"I'm _in_ love with you. Do you hear me?" She spoke so earnestly, the determination once more painted across her face, and her words assaulted him.

"You can't be," he whispered. She couldn't be because she _shouldn't_ be. She couldn't be because he wasn't right for her. He was mixed up in affairs that would only take pieces of her until there was nothing left, the way it slowly took piece after piece of him, and — and he _knew_ she couldn't love him, because he had told her everything, and she just _couldn't_.

"I can," she said firmly. "And I _am_. I'll prove it to you." She took a slow breath, and she didn't let him say a word before she began to sing softly, her eyes holding his. "_There's a saying old, says that love is blind," _she sang.

"Rachel," he whispered, because he couldn't find the voice to say anything more. She only shook her head, as if to silence him, and went on._ "Still we're often told, seek and ye shall find, / So I'm going to seek a certain lad I've had in mind, / Looking everywhere, haven't found him yet, / He's the big affair I cannot forget, / Only man I ever think of with regret. . . ."_

He knew this song. His ma loved it. He had never really listened to it before, though. But he listened now — now, when Rachel grasped his motionless hands and held them to her chest. Tears pooled in her eyes as she sang, as if it were all too much even for her.

_"I'd like to add his initial to my monogram. / Tell me, where is the shepherd for this lost lamb? / There's a somebody I'm longin' to see. / I hope that he turns out to be, / Someone who'll watch over me. . . ."_

He blinked, his eyes burned, and everything blurred. He knew he had tears in his eyes, too, because she wasn't up on stage singing her heart out to the audience, and she wasn't singing some lullaby meant to comfort him. She was singing _for_ him, and for her, too. She was singing for _them._

_"I'm a little lamb who's lost in the wood. / I know I could always be good, / To one who'll watch over me. / Although he may not be the man some / Girls think of as handsome, / To my heart he carries the key. . . ."_

And then she smiled a little, squeezed his hands, and he stepped closer to her.

_"Won't you tell him, please, to put on some speed, / Follow my lead, oh, how I need, / Someone to watch over me. / Won't you tell him, please, to put on some speed, / Follow my lead, oh, how I need, / Someone to watch over me . . . / Someone to watch over me. . . ."_

She panted slightly as they stood there, as if she had sung her breath away. "I do," she finally whispered. "I _do_ love you. And I believe that's what matters most. I _know_ it does."

He tried to think of the right words to say, of a way to argue, because he couldn't let her become tangled up in everything, yet all he could see and hear and feel right at this moment was _Rachel_, and the very idea that she would ever _not_ be there, not be with him, made him dizzy.

"Don't you believe me?" she went on, as if she didn't know what to make of his silence. "I'll say it until you hear it, Finn. I'm in love with you," she said. "I'm in love with you. I'm in love with you. _I'm in love with you_. I'm —"

He kissed her. He took her face in his hands and captured her mouth. She sank into him, and he wrapped his arms around her as he lifted her up off the ground. Her arms circled his neck and her hands fisted into his hair. His skin felt like it was on fire, and the feel of her lips on his, all of her, right there and with him and in _love_ with him — it was too much for him.

The world was tinted with the colour Rachel Berry.

She nipped at his lips and let him delve his tongue into her mouth. She tasted like oranges, like her sweet Orange Blossom cocktail. He stumbled forward blindly, moving them into his bedroom as she began to trail kisses along his jaw, whispering the words into his skin between each press of her lips — _I'm in love with you_. He finally felt the back of his calves hit his bed, and he turned and set her down. It took all the willpower he had, but he pulled away from her, even as she curled her hands around his shoulders to keep him close.

And then he was on his knees, looking up at her as she sat on the bed, her legs too short even to reach the ground, and he had never seen a better sight. Her cheeks were flaming, her lips were swollen, and her eyes were glazed.

He knew, then, that she wasn't the only one in far too deep.

He was completely lost.

Somehow, this tiny, bright, singing, _undeniable_ girl had taken everything he'd known and turned his world on its head. "I've never met anyone like you," he murmured, and his hands held her waist. Her hot breath rushed over his face and made him a little dizzy, but he had to say this.

He leaned forward and kissed her throat. Her grip on his shoulders tightened.

"I've never met someone so — so — so _good_ and kind and sweet and — and so sure of herself and so hopeful and fearless," he said, unsure of his confessions as they poured unwittingly out of him. He pressed a kiss to her collarbone. "I've never met someone who could sing like you." He kissed the smooth skin above the dip in her dress, his whispered words breaking a little. "I've never met someone who listened to me and understood me and . . . someone like _you_." He kissed the top of her breast.

"It is wrong," he whispered, "and you could do better — but, babe, I — I can't —" He leaned forward and whispered the words into her skin. "I love you," he said. Her hands skimmed his back and then held his head to her chest, and he could feel each shuddering breath she took. "I love you," he repeated.

"Finn," she murmured, so much in that one word, so much in his name on her lips.

"I didn't want you to go," he admitted, and his tears pooled on their skin as his cheeks pressed to her chest. "I lied. I still don't want that. I never will. I . . ." He choked on the words and let his sentence hang.

Gently, carefully, as if she could break him, she turned his head and caught his gaze, and her fingers traced the contours of his face, tenderly brushing at his tears. "I've never met anyone like you either," she told him. She spoke like she sang, as if each fragile word were so close to her heart. "And I don't care that you tried to send me away, and I don't care if you try again. It won't work. You can't get rid of me, Finn." She smiled that soft, slight smile that she surely reserved for him.

"I'm yours now, don't you see?" She stroked his face, and her thumb ran gently against his lip.

He kissed her, tugging her so close that her legs could nearly wrap around his waist, and everything else fell away to leave only _Rachel_, only thick, dark hair and soft, soft skin, only kisses that stole his breath and hands that burned his skin.

Her arms wrapped around his back and traced random patterns, and his own hands run up her arms and then paused on the straps of her dress as his fingers curled around the material. "Rachel," he murmured.

"Yes," she said, speaking into his kisses. "_Yes_."

He tugged down the straps, and she deftly pulled her arms free, allowing the material to pool at her waist as his gaze fell on her small, round breasts. He reached out and held them, felt their weight, and his thumb grazed her nipped and felt it tighten under his touch. Her eyes had fallen closed, and her mouth had parted slightly, and —

"Finn," she whispered.

He leaned forward and kissed her breast. Once, twice, three times, and then he took a nipple into his mouth and swirled his tongue, and she moaned. Her hands fisted in his hair once more, only to suddenly tug his head backwards. She looked down at him, her eyes hooded.

"Gorgeous," he breathed.

She took his hands in hers, her fingers intertwined with his, and he kissed their knuckles. She held his gaze. She smiled slowly and sweetly, and he did, too. His hands found her waist once more, and he hoisted her up slightly only to lay her back on the bed. Her arms circled his neck yet again to bring him with her, and he kissed her, his eyes fluttering closed when her breasts brushed his chest.

He kissed her, his tongue pressing and circling and teasing hers, and his hands found her breasts again as she arched up into him, whimpering. Her own hands skated down his back and tugged down his briefs. He pulled back from her to pull off her dress. She looked up at him, and he down at her, and he watched a blush curl in her cheeks and then seep across her whole body.

"I've never . . ." she whispered. Her eyes flickered down and she flushed even pinker, if that were possible. "Do you think — do you think it'll . . . _fit_?"

"Rachel," he whispered, sure he was even more in love with her with every second. "I think I was made for you." She bit her lip as she smiled a little, and then she reached her hands out, and moments later he found himself once more between her legs, her trembling thighs pressing against his hips and her breath hot and shaky as it washed over his face.

He kissed her. And then he took her hand, guiding it down to touch him. He grunted slightly when her small hand gripped his length, and his own hand brushed her folds and felt her, so hot and so wet, and _God_. He closed his eyes for a moment, only to open them and find her eyes dark as she stared up at him.

His heart swelled a little. He kissed her sweetly. "I love you," he told her, his hands settling on her waist. "I love you so much."

She nodded, and her hands came up to wrap around his back. He kissed her, letting his lips skim across her check and to her neck, sucking and nipping. And then, suddenly, he bit down on her shoulder and thrust into her. She gasped sharply and he held himself steady inside her, trying to resist the overwhelming urge to move.

He caught her gaze and held it as she took one slow breath after another, her fingers digging into his back. He had been with a girl before, but it hadn't been like this. Nothing would ever be like this, because this _meant_ something. This meant _everything_.

"K-kiss me," Rachel murmured.

He obeyed, his lips softly touching hers, and her hips rolled slightly under his. He pulled out slightly and gently plunged back in, then out, then in, all the while kissing her as sweetly as he could. He wasn't going to last long, he knew, but he wanted her to go with him.

One of his hands found her breasts, tweaking one of her nipples, and she let out a needy whimper that he already loved so much. His other hand travelled between them. He fingered her, trying to find the right spot, and when she gasped into his mouth and then moaned slightly, kissing him hard, he decided _that_ was the right spot.

"Finn," she panted into his lips, "I — I — _Finnnnnn_!" She shook under him, pressing her face into his neck and muffling her moans in his skin. His thrusts grew faster and sloppier, and her breasts bounced and brushed his chest, and he _really_ wasn't going to last much longer. His finger rubbed her clit, she tightened suddenly around his length, and heat rolled through him as he exploded inside her while she exploded around him.

He gently slid in and out a few more times and then slipped out of her. He started to fall back away from her, but she kept a hold of him and came along, landing softly on his chest as his back hit the bed. Her whole body trembled a little, or maybe that was his body, but he really couldn't tell the difference.

He ran his hand over her sweaty back and up to her head, and he curled his fingers in her hair. "Are you okay?" he whispered.

Slowly, with shaky arms, she propped herself up to look at him. The city lights from the window illuminated her face, and he realised her eyes were glassy. "You're crying?" he asked, reaching out to brush his thumb under her eyes.

"They're good tears," she said, her voice thick, "the best tears." She kissed his chest. "I love you. And — and nothing will ever be the same again, will it?"

"I love you, too," he replied, and he tugged her back to his chest, her head curling automatically under his chin. No, nothing would ever be the same again. How could it? He didn't know what it would be like after this. Everything with McKinley's and with Karofsky were the very same as they had been an hour again. But he knew that he was hers now, completely and for always, and she was his, too. And the rest?

The rest would come tomorrow, not tonight.

**tbc**

**

* * *

**

a/n: what'd you think? Too corny? I tried not to make it too corny. Oh, well.


	6. Chapter 6

_a/n: this is something of a filler chapter, as you'll see. It's all about what's going to come next, but I tried to make it as interesting as I could. Anyway, I'll try to have the next chapter up by, at the latest, a week from today._

* * *

"Like this," he said, shaping her hand. "And, okay, bring your hand out, yes, that's the jab. It's pretty basic, and it tends to wear the other guy down. Like that. Right. Good!"

"This isn't so hard," she declared happily, jumping a little on the bed. "Is that all, then?"

He tried not to laugh. "No, actually, there are a _few_ more rules."

"There can't possibly be that many," she insisted. "I hit you, and you hit me, and, don't, poke the other person in the eye or something, right?"

He laughed outright then. She stood on the bed, her hair falling around her shoulders, his button-down shirt hanging off her shoulders, and her eyes bright and blazing as she held up her hands and feigned adorable little punches. "Come on," she said. "Let's go. I can take you." She bounced on the balls of her feet.

"I have a better idea," he said.

"What's that?" she asked eagerly, feigning a few more punches as she hopped from foot to foot.

He swooped in and grabbed her around the waist. "Finn!" she squealed, giggling as he lifted her up and placed a few wet, sloppy kisses along her neck. "We're _boxing_!"

"Why don't we say you won so we can celebrate?" His hands slipped under her shirt and ran up her bare stomach while she giggled wildly, squirming and trying to push him away. They both tumbled down onto the bed, and he kissed her before she could escape. Moments later, she finally melted into him, wrapping her legs around his waist and curling her fingers in his hair.

He rolled them over, and she licked her way up his jaw, only to suck his earlobe into her mouth playfully before she murmured, "I'd be a really good boxer, right?" He could almost hear the pout in her voice, as though she'd be so upset if he disagreed.

"You'd be the best," he assured, nipping and sucking her neck.

She shifted suddenly, her thigh brushed between his, taking him by surprise, and she took the chance to shove his chest, forcing him to roll over and allowing her to straddle his waist. He really didn't care. She giggled madly as he tugged her down for another kiss and then let his hands wander down to undo the few buttons on the shirt that kept her covered. He loved this, loved her infectious happiness, loved _her, _and —

Somebody banged on the front door.

She gasped, and he barely had time to scramble up off his back before he heard the door slam open and Puck shout "Morning, Hud!" _Fuck._ Finn yanked the shirt back onto Rachel's shoulders, and she fumbled with the buttons even as Puck strode uninvited into the room.

Rachel froze, her arms holding the shirt closed, and Finn stared at Puck, who stood in the doorway, a slow, lecherous grin forming on his face. He opened his mouth to say something.

"No," Finn said, because just . . . _no_. "Get out."

But Puck's smile only grew wider. "Why, fancy meeting _you_ here, Ms. Berry," he said, and Finn wrapped an arm around Rachel's shoulder to tug her securely to his side. Puck needed to turn around and walk out as quickly as he had walked in. Finn started to say as much, but, straightening slightly, as though to compose herself, Rachel spoke first.

"Hello Mr. Puckerman," she said, greeting him as if her face weren't flushed, as if her lips weren't swollen, as if she weren't wearing Finn's shirt and sitting in bed with him. "Is there something we can help you with?" she asked politely.

But the blush curling in her cheeks gave her away.

"Actually, Ms. Berry," he began, his grin widening, "you'd help me an awful lot if you'd —"

"Out," Finn interrupted. "I mean it, go on, beat it. Get out of here."

Puck only laughed. "We gotta talk," he said, "but I'll give you a minute." He winked at Rachel as he left.

The bedroom door had barely hit its frame behind him before Rachel, letting out an embarrassed moan, buried her face in her hands and shook her head, as if to shake away the last minute. Finn squeezed her shoulder in some kind of comfort, and she looked over at him with wide eyes. "I cannot _believe_ he simply _walked_ right in and — and how will I ever look him in the eye again? Oh!" She covered her face once more.

Despite himself, Finn smiled a little. She looked so cute — how could he not smile? "Honestly, baby, Puck's seen worse."

She peaked at him through her fingers. "I like that," she whispered.

He frowned. "You like —"

"Endearments," she clarified quickly, slowly lowering her hands. She bit her lip shyly, and as he smiled, she did, too, before she leaned into him, pressing her face to his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around her. She was so tiny, and she had him falling deeper every damn second.

"Come here," he whispered, and she obediently tilted her face towards his. He kissed her.

Puck banged on the bedroom door. "Still here!" he shouted.

Finn glared at the door as Rachel sighed into his lips. "I should dress," she told him. "I need to check in with Mrs. Baxter anyhow. She's probably worried sick, and I've been absolutely dreadful to neglect her this long. It's nearly noon, you know!"

She was right. Finn knew that. He still hated Puck, though, especially when Rachel pulled away from him and slipped off his shirt in order to slip on her gown. He finally climbed out of bed to dress alongside her, but he paused as he watched her tie up her hair and smooth her dress. He could get used to this. He went to stand behind her, and she leaned slightly into him as he kissed the top of her head. "I'll see you at the club tonight?" he asked.

She turned in his arms to look up at him. "Count on it." He smiled down at her, and she smiled up at him, and he fanned his fingers over her hip, and . . . and she blushed a little and ducked away from him bashfully. She led the way out of the bedroom, ignored Puck's smirk, and blew Finn a kiss as she left. Puck snorted, only for his lascivious grin to return the moment the door shut behind Rachel. "How does a broad that tiny have stilts like that?" he asked.

Finn glared at him. "What do you want?" he asked. He slumped into a seat at the kitchen table and ran a hand over his face. "Or what does Karofsky want?"

"I thought the singer wasn't giving you any nookie," Puck said.

"Don't talk about her like that," Finn growled.

"Like what?" He laughed. "Have a look at this," he said, clapping mockingly, "somebody's already tied to an apron. She really your girl now, then?"

"Yeah," Finn said, making his intent clear, "she's my girl."

"For good this time?" Puck asked, and some of the ridicule had left his voice.

"For good," Finn said, his mind flickering to the last week. He didn't know how much Puck knew — he probably knew more than enough — but it didn't matter either way. The last week didn't matter. Last night mattered. "For good," he repeated. "Anyway, why'd you come by? Is Karofsky bent that I haven't been by the club since Sunday? 'Cause I'm coming by tonight. I need to pick up something to eat and then I'll be there."

"You have a fight tonight, actually," Puck said, lighting up a cigarette.

"What? Shit." Finn had completely forgotten.

"Don't worry," Puck said. "I'll let your girl know why you couldn't make it."

Finn glared. "Why don't you just stay away from _my_ girl?"

"What's the matter? Don't you trust me?" Puck laughed. "Don't blow your wig. I've got one of my own now, and a kid on the way, too. I ain't gonna go after yours." Something heavier overtook the air, and Puck offered a ciggy to Finn, who took it and then caught the lighter Puck tossed him.

"Who'm I fighting?" Finn asked.

"Peter Rammer," Puck said. "Fucker's got a mean left uppercut. Watch for it."

Finn nodded. He couldn't believe he completely forgot about the fight. He hadn't even been by the gym much this week. He'd been busy — it took a lot out of a fellow to avoid thoughts of Rachel. And he didn't know anything about Rammer, didn't know his weight, didn't know his style, didn't know _nothing_.

"You don't have to do this anymore, if you don't want," Puck said, something quiet and serious in his voice as he took a slow drag.

"What?" Finn scoffed. "You think I can go to Karofsky and say I'm out, and that's it?"

"That's not what I meant, jackass," Puck said. "Look, you gotta girl now? Then you gotta take care of her, and that's not gonna happen if you're a fucking _boxer_."

"What do you suggest I do, then?" Finn asked, defensive. He knew Rachel deserved better, he did. Puck paused, as if he knew Finn wouldn't like what he intended to say, and Finn frowned, stubbing out his cigarette. "What?" Finn pushed.

"Come work for Karofsky," Puck finally replied.

"Work for Karofsky?" Finn repeated, incredulous. "I _do_ work for Karofsky. I have a fucking fight tonight with Peter Rammer."

"I mean really work for him, you bozo," Puck said. "Quit boxing, and come on Karofsky's pay role."

"Are you kidding?" Finn exclaimed. "We've done some stupid shit before, Puck, but I've never done close to what _he_'s had you do — I don't even wanna _know_ what he's had you do. I'm not getting involved in that. I'm not. I'd _never_ get out from under him if I did."

"Sweet Jesus, Hudson, _listen_ to you," Puck said. "Life isn't a fucking movie. Not everything is black and white. People've got _colour_, and you do what you got to do. And, hell, you really gonna sit there and tell me you thought you were getting out of here? This is your _life_, Finn. Own up to it."

"I _am_ going to get out of here," Finn told him, feeling stupid even as the words left his mouth.

Puck sneered a little. "Your sweet little dame feed you that one?"

"Don't," Finn snapped. They glared at one another.

Puck sighed a moment later, however, and stubbed out his own cigarette. "Look, I'm trying to help you, Hud. I am. We're friends, aren't we?" He paused, as if for Finn to argue. But they _were_ friends.

Puck leaned in closer. "He doesn't trust you anymore. If you worked for him, if you stopped messing around boxing and avoiding McKinley's and . . . you can't play it like this anymore, Finn. You're either in or your out, and you _can't_ be out, 'cause we're both fucked over, which means get in or get dead. That's how it works."

Finn didn't want to hear this. But Puck stared at him hard, and Finn couldn't look away, and he couldn't deny what Puck said. "I just can't," Finn muttered at last.

He suddenly wanted Rachel there, wanted so much for her arms to wrap around him from behind and for the smell of her perfume to overwhelm him as she murmured soft, certain reassurances. But she wasn't there. What would she say if she were?

"There are rules, Hud," Puck said, and that was that. He stood. "Think about it," he added. "You stay loyal to Karofsky, you don't have much else to worry about. There's worse out there, you know that — I know you do. Just think about it, okay?"

Finn nodded curtly.

At the door, Puck turned back to him. "She won't leave you," he said.

"What?" Finn asked.

"Your Canary. Rachel, isn't it?" He paused. "You've always been reluctant to own up to your life, but if you're afraid now that you'll lose your girl if you come to work for Karofsky, don't. She's not going anywhere, either, and it's not like she ain't been around worse."

"What are you talking about?" Finn asked, frowning.

"Don't be a dipstick," Puck said, sounding annoyed. "You think an innocent sweetheart could see what Rachel saw last Sunday and stick around after?" He raised his eyebrows. "Nah, Rachel's got a past, too, and if she wants to be with you, she ain't gonna be scared away 'cause you man up and do what you have to do." He lit another cigarette. "Your fight's at four. Come by the club afterward." He left.

Finn stared at the door. He needed a drink. What did Puck know about Rachel's past, anyway? Puck didn't know a damn thing. He might bump off the fellows who hassled Karofsky, but that didn't mean he could waltz into Finn's place and tell him he didn't have any fucking choice in his own fucking life.

But Puck was right, wasn't he? Finn couldn't keep up like this. And if Puck was right that Karofsky didn't trust Finn anymore, then. . . .

But Rachel _would_ leave Finn if he _completely_ threw his lot in with Karofsky.

He couldn't take that.

Where did that leave him, then?

* * *

She had a feeling Mrs. Baxter would never quite like her again.

The moment Rachel stepped into the house, the older woman pounced on Rachel for an explanation. Rachel tried to tell to Mrs. Baxter that she simply spent the night with a friend, as she stayed at the club far too late to feel comfortable walking home by herself, but when Mrs. Baxter asked her why _some man_ didn't walk her home like always, Rachel didn't know what to say. And she could already see the disdain in Mrs. Baxter's gaze.

In the end, Rachel stomped upstairs with as much dignity as she could muster.

Alone in her room, however, Rachel felt her irritation fade away. She sank down onto her bed and let a smile creep onto her face as she thought of last night, of this morning, of how she had _finally_ forced Finn to see what she had known all along: they _belonged_ together. She lay back on her bed, sighing as she gazed up at the ceiling. What had Puck wanted? Did Karofsky send him?

Rachel didn't like that idea.

What would Karofsky think of her and Finn together? Would he be angry? Would he simply pass her over for some other poor girl? Would he threaten her? Would he threaten Finn? Her mind began to spin with the questions, and she tried to remind herself of Mercedes's advice the night before — there wasn't any use at all in speculation.

Karofsky would do what he would do, and in the meantime Rachel would make sure she and Finn made it out from under him. After all, they were together now, and they would help each other. He could protect her, and she could protect him. She could even make him see that something had to be done to stop Karofsky. She sighed. It would work out. It _would_.

She thought of Finn.

She wondered if he were alone now, perhaps in search of some food. He really had nothing at all at his place. She would have to go to the market for him, and she could cook him up something nice. She didn't know what he liked, but she would find out, of course.

Finn.

_Finn._

She already missed him.

She finally sat up. She needed to prepare for tonight, for her performance and for Finn, because she would see him again in a few hours. Did he miss her the way she already missed him? She hoped so. What should she wear tonight? She had to wear something trendy, as Mr. Karofsky wanted — as show business required, she preferred to think — but she wanted to wear something with a little of her own style, too.

She wanted to wear something that would really wow Finn.

He was already hers, though.

She giggled a little, happily swinging her legs a little before she finally stood, undressed, and took a bath. She would spend the night with Finn tonight, too, she decided, and then she would wake early and make a big breakfast with something fresh from town. That'd be absolutely terrific, right? She did up her hair in a fancy twist, and then pulled out the red gown she'd bought after Karofsky had offered her a job.

She needed to add a little _something_.

She looked through her craft box until she found those pink and purple beads she had meant to use on a new scarf. She didn't need a scarf in the spring or summer, though. Grinning, Rachel spent the next few hours on the dress, and she thought the beaded flowers sewn around the bodice of the dress were a _vast_ improvement.

She dressed, then, put on a little of her new lipstick, the tube she hadn't worn since Finn had missed their first date. She looked so sophisticated, just like that night. She smiled to herself as she slipped on her coat. It wasn't even four in the afternoon when she went downstairs to leave, but there was no reason she couldn't arrive early, as she always did, and if Finn were to come early, too, well, then, all the better.

"Out again?" Mrs. Baxter called as Rachel opened the front door.

"Don't wait up!" Rachel replied, feeling rather sassy. What did Mrs. Baxter know, anyway?

She arrived at McKinley's in record time.

She waved happily at Sam as she took off her coat, checked it herself, and then slid into a seat at the bar. "Good afternoon, Mr. Evans!" she greeted. "A soda, please."

"Afternoon, Ms. Berry," he said.

"You can call me Rachel, you know," she told him. "We're friends, after all."

"Are we?" He smiled. "Call me Sam, then." He handed her a glass.

And she couldn't help herself. She leaned forward, propping herself up on the bar so that she could whisper to him. "I want you to know that Mercedes told me of your relationship with her, and I fully support you both." She pulled back and smoothed out the skirt of her dress, and she nodded firmly at him as if to reinforce her point.

He stared for a moment and then nodded slowly, looking almost amused. "Thanks," he said. "You spend the night with Mercedes?" he asked.

"No, actually," she said. "We left together, as I'm sure you remember, but I spent the night with Mr. Hudson, actually." She spoke as if it were nothing, but when he raised his eyebrows at her, she couldn't help but beam at him, and he laughed.

She knew she shouldn't talk about that sort of thing publicly, but Sam _was_ her friend. And she had to tell someone. "Where is Mercedes, by the way?" she asked. She glanced around the club. No one was there at all, except for a few older men who Rachel had come to realise were _always_ there in the afternoon.

"She didn't tell you?" Sam said. "Today's her day off."

"Oh, that's nice," Rachel said. She wanted to talk to Mercedes, though. She had to tell her what had happened. But she could wait until tomorrow. Honestly, Rachel was more excited to see Finn again than to see Mercedes. "Do you think Finn will be here soon?" she asked.

He smirked a little. "I'm sure he'll be here any minute."

She chatted with him for the next half hour or so and then volunteered to help him. She hadn't brought anything to read, Mercedes wasn't there, neither was Kurt, and Finn _still_ hadn't come. "Isn't there _anything_ I can do?" she asked. "Oh! Teach me how to make an Orange Blossom!"

"And that would help me how, exactly?" Sam asked.

"Well, what _would_ help you, then?" she replied.

"You don't have to help me," he insisted. "You know that."

She had offered to help before, and he always assured her she didn't need to help. But she _wanted_ to help, wanted to be useful. She told him she had worked as a secretary in her father's office when she was younger, and she could ask cook very well, and she could sew, too. "I'm really very useful," she said. "I have a stunning voice, yes, but I have many other talents as well."

Really, people didn't realise how industrious she could be.

"Okay," Sam said suddenly, his eyes on the door to the club. She started to turn in her seat to follow his gaze, but he distracted her. "Take these to the back." He heaved a tray of dirty glasses onto the counter.

Her eyes went wide. "Are you sure you don't want to teach me how to make an Orange Blossom?" she asked hesitantly. She wanted to help, but she did _not_ list heavy lifting among her skills. Then again, she had ridden horses when she was younger, and that took a lot of upper-body strength.

"I'll teach you to make an Orange Blossom," he said, "but I'd really appreciate it if you'd take this back to Tina." He nodded to a door off to the side of the club, a door she had seen Tina and Mercedes both come and go from. "Through that door," he said. He pushed the tray towards her.

She started to say something, but there was a commotion behind her, and she turned in her seat to see what the matter was. She watched in surprise as two large, brutish man pushed several tables back and then one dragged a chair to the center of the empty space, even as a third man shoved a small, impish-looking man into the chair.

"I really think there's been a mistake," the little man said, his eyes leaping pathetically among the three other men.

"Rachel," Sam said sharply, and her attention snapped back to him. "Please take these back to the kitchens." His shoulders were tight, and she recognised his posture as the very same that Finn possessed last Sunday before Karofsky completely lost his temper. Rachel swallowed thickly. Her eyes darted to the scene unfolding in the center of the club. She really shouldn't let Finn or Sam or anyone else attempt to shield her from these things, but. . . .

"_Rachel_," Sam repeated.

She stood and then attempted to pick up the tray. It _was_ heavy, and she stumbled a little. "Careful," Sam said. "You need help?"

"I have it," she said. She wasn't _that_ weak. She started toward the door that Sam pointed to once more, but she couldn't help glancing back at the cleared space, at the one man cowering in his chair as the others stood around him.

"If you'd only let me _explain_!" the small man exclaimed, his voice cracking slightly.

Rachel pushed her way back into the kitchen.

Her eyes landed on Tina almost immediately. She nearly dropped the tray of glasses onto the first clear surface she saw, and Tina jumped a little as she looked up. But she smiled when she saw Rachel. "Sam didn't make you carry that, did he?" Tina asked.

"I volunteered," Rachel said, flexing her arms a little. She smiled at Tina. "How are you? How's the baby?"

"I'm fine, and the baby is, too," Tina said. Rachel pushed for more, and Tina smiled a little as she went on, explaining that she thought the baby was a boy, because she simply _felt_ as if it were. She showed Rachel around the kitchen, and she introduced her to the handful of other people back there. She started to wash the glasses, then, and Rachel volunteered to help.

"You really shouldn't," Tina said. Before Rachel could protest, Tina added, "Mr. Karofsky wouldn't like you back here."

Rachel didn't really know what to say.

"But thank you," Tina went on, smiling. "I'll try to catch a little of your performance tonight."

Rachel nodded. She had been back in the kitchen for nearly fifteen minutes now. Surely whatever Sam didn't want her to be a part of her had finished. She thought of that poor little man. She wondered what he could have possible done wrong.

She pushed open the door back into the club.

She stopped short.

The imp of a man lay on the ground, and Rachel watched with wide eyes as one of the terrifying men who must surely work for Karofsky yanked him up and let Rachel catch a clear view of his bloodied, bruised face. She should duck back into the kitchen, she knew she should, but she only stood frozen as she watched.

Mr. Karofsky was there now, too, puffing on a cigar and sitting at a nearby table, his face passive, as if this were all nothing to him.

"Okay, okay," the small man squealed. "I lied, and I'm sorry! But I — I _will_ have the money, _all_ the money by — by — Monday! I swear!" He looked at Karofsky with wild eyes.

"You know," Karofsky, "I really don't think you will."

One of his goons popped the smaller man and sent him flying to the ground once more, and a second man kicked him, repeatedly. When both attackers finally drew back, the man simply curled around his stomach, whimpering.

"You've made me a lot of promises," Karofsky said, "and yet I don't have any money, and that article was still in the paper. No, I don't think you're much good for anything anymore." He gestured at one of his brunos, who stepped over to the man on the floor and leaned down to hear whatever Karofsky wanted to say.

And the battered man scrambled to his feet and made a try for the door.

It all happened so fast.

One of the men started after him, and another man pulled a gun from his pocket, but he fumbled slightly, and Karofsky cursed, and — and a shot rang out. Rachel nearly screamed, but a hand lightly cupped her mouth. "Don't," someone murmured quietly. He gently tugged her back into the kitchen, but not before Rachel's eyes fell on Sam, who's arm was still held straight out, a gun in his hand.

The door shut, cut off the club from her, and the man who had pulled her back immediately released her and stepped away. She turned to face him, her heart still racing, and she was barely calmed at all by the sight of Mike. "Sorry," he said, "but you really didn't need to call attention to yourself."

She only nodded. "Thank you," she finally managed. She knew she should say more, that she should make a good impression, as this was only the second time she had ever spoken with Mike, yet she could barely keep a hold on herself. "Sam," she said. "Mr. Evans, I mean — he —" She didn't know what to say.

She looked over at Tina and then back at Mike.

"Come on," Mike said, and he took her elbow gently and guided her back to a table in a side room off the kitchen. "Sit. I'll get you a glass of water." She only nodded dumbly, and he left here there. She calmed down slightly, but she still felt a little dizzy with it all when Mike returned and handed her a glass.

"Thank you," she murmured again.

He nodded.

It was quiet.

"His name's Jacob," Mike said at last. "Or it was. Jacob Ben Israel."

"Who?" she asked. She cottoned on a moment later, however. She took a long sip of water. "He's dead then?" she asked, barely able to say the words.

"Probably," Mike said.

"But then . . . Sam . . . Mr. Evans — he _killed_ him." She couldn't believe it. She wouldn't.

"He was already dead the moment Karofsky's boys found him and dragged him in here," Mike said, and he spoke gently, as if to talk her down and make her feel better. "Jacob liked to place bets, but he always placed the wrong ones. He's been dead for a long time."

Rachel waited for more, and, apparently seeing that, Mike reluctantly went on. "He owed Karofsky a lot. And he worked for some paper, and he promised to pay off his debt by keeping Karofsky out of that paper, but he hasn't always been successful, and he's been hiding from Karofsky for weeks now." He paused. "He's been _dead_ for weeks now."

She understood; at least, she thought she did. But for _Sam_ to shoot him —

"Don't think about it too much," Mike suggested.

Rachel wasn't sure that was any help at all.

"Maybe you should go home," Mike continued kindly. "You seem a little shaken."

"I am," Rachel admitted. "But I . . . I still have to go on stage." She stood up. She couldn't let these things get to her. "I'll be fine."

She needed to see Finn. She _needed_ to see him. He would be here soon, wouldn't he?

She started to leave, but she hesitated. From across the kitchen, Tina offered a small smile. Rachel glanced back at Mike. "_Can_ I?' she asked, feeling so small with the question. But she honestly didn't want to see anything else . . . _bad_.

Mike nodded. And her next question simply slipped out. "If Finn had been here," she said, "if he had been at the bar, and he had been closer to a gun, would . . .?" She couldn't finish.

"Karofsky would have wanted him to," Mike said. "But Finn's somehow always found a way around that." He smiled a little, then, as if he knew he had finally said something Rachel wanted to hear. She nodded, thanked him, and cautiously left the kitchen.

A few more people had arrived. Karofsky sat at his usual table with a few people who hadn't been there ten minutes ago. His goons were gone. Jacob Ben Israel's body was gone, too. And Sam stood behind the bar, pouring a beer for Noah Puckerman, acting as if nothing had happened at all. Taking a deep breath, Rachel went over to the bar.

"Ms. Berry!" Noah greeted, grinning widely.

"Mr. Puckerman," she said, nodding her own greeting and sitting. "Could I have an Orange Blossom, please, Mr. Evans?" She couldn't look at him.

"Finn wanted me to pass something along to you," Noah said, and her face snapped to him. Had something happened? "He had a fight this afternoon," he said. "He had forgotten when I mentioned it to him this afternoon. But he said he'd come by after."

"Oh," Rachel said, disappointment swelling in her chest. She _really_ needed to see him. With Noah's gaze on her, though, she smiled politely. "Thank you for letting me know," she told him.

"Orange Blossom, doll," Sam said, sliding her the drink.

She looked over at him, and there must have been something in her gaze, because his face pinched slightly. She quickly looked away. How had Sam become tangled up in all of this? What had he done? Finn must know. She would have to find out. Because Sam couldn't be a bad person — he _couldn't_ be. She wouldn't believe it.

She had made mistakes, too.

The next hour or so passed painfully slow. She had dinner, she talked with Noah Puckerman, and when Kurt arrived, she happily played cards with him. She wanted to tell him everything, absolutely everything, because surely he would have an explanation concerning Sam for her, and she thought he'd like to know that she and Finn were finally _truly_ together.

But she couldn't speak about all of that, about much of anything, in fact, with Sam and Noah both nearby. Instead, she simply kept an eye out for Finn as she tried to teach Kurt how to play Bridge. He was truly terrible. She tried to tell him as much, but she had barely opened her mouth before his expression darkened suddenly, and she paused. "Oh, goodness," he murmured.

"What?" she asked.

"Good evening, Ms. Berry," Karofsky said.

She turned in surprise, trying not to look at all taken aback or afraid. He stood right there, and she could smell cigar smoke on him, and she could see the slight stain of sweat on his shirt collar.

"Mr. Karofsky," she said. She glanced at Kurt, but his face was blank as he sipped his pink cocktail and stared at the far wall. She returned her gaze to Karofsky, trying on a smile. "How are you?" she asked.

"I'll be swell if you'll have a dance with me," he said, no real preamble whatsoever, and he held his hand out.

What could she say?

"Of course," she managed, Santana's words, and Kurt's too, swirling through her head. "I do need to go up on stage soon, though."

"I think the band can handle a few more songs without you," Karofsky told her. There was almost a teasing quality to his voice, but she didn't want to be teased by _Karofsky_.

She felt stiff so close to him, as though if she made a wrong move, she'd snap.

His hands grasped hers loosely, and she wanted terribly to pull away and to return to the bar, but she knew she couldn't, and she smiled slightly as they reached the dance floor and he turned to her, letting one hand go to her waist. She touched her hand to his shoulder and let him lead her in the simple dance.

She wished the band would play something fast, something that would let her swing around and away from him, but she knew she'd have no such luck.

She always liked a strong male lead, in all honestly. She liked how an assertive partner could let her become swept up in the dance and she need not even give a thought to her own movement. And Karofsky _was_ a strong lead. He didn't stumble over his own feet, he didn't glance to the ground, he didn't seem at all uncertain. He could dance, he knew it, and he felt perfectly confident as he twirled her out slightly and then brought her back close to him again.

But she couldn't enjoy a moment of it, not even a single second, because she felt as if she could barely breathe, as if she were in the most precarious situation, as if her bones were all ice and any moment his grip on her would tighten and she would shatter to pieces. She recognised suddenly the way her heart pounded against her chest, and she thought of the last time she had felt this way.

Terror.

She was terrified.

Her mind flickered to a sobbing Quinn and Finn wrapping Azimio's body up in tarp and a gun in Sam's hand and — and she didn't want to be here. She didn't want to be anywhere near Dave Karofsky. She didn't want him to dance with her. She didn't want him to pursue her. She didn't want anything to do with him, and the very thought that she didn't have a choice in the matter made her a little sick.

"What's the matter, doll?" he asked. "I promise I won't step on your feet." And he smiled.

Startled, she nearly stepped on _his_ foot. He smiled, and she realised he had an almost boyish face. There was even a dimple in his cheek, and he looked so completely _innocent_.

"What?" he said. "Don't believe me? Aw, well, I'll show you." He spun her again, and then he dipped her, and her head spun. She loved to dance like this, and he must have seen the feeling on her face.

He grinned proudly. "What'd I say? I can't sing to save my life, not like you, but I can dance." And he looked so adorable, so suddenly _charming_, that she felt herself relax a little. How could someone this charming possibly be so awful?

"Where'd you learn?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Taught myself, I suppose," he said. "I'm a self-made man, baby. I take the initiative. I'm like the New Dealer himself." His declarations had a sweet exaggeration to them, and she giggled a little despite everything. "Tell me," he said, "when was the last time you saw a movie, Ms. Berry?"

"It's been ages," she admitted. "And I love movies. I want to be in one someday, you know, after I've taken the stage by storm." Carefully, she dropped Finn's name. "Mr. Hudson promised to take me to see _It Happened One Night_ soon. I love Clark Gable."

"Mr. Hudson, huh?"

There was suddenly something in his gaze, something slick, something she had seen before beneath heaps of another boy's sweet talk and charm, and she felt once more as if her feet weren't certain beneath her. She put her acting to good use, however, as he tilted his head curiously at her and she brought out a shy smile.

"He's wonderful, Mr. Hudson is," she went on. She had to do this right. She had to make it clear that she had a fellow, but she couldn't make Karofsky upset as she did so. She now knew as well as anybody in this club what happened when that man became angry. "I've fallen for him, actually."

"Does he know this?" Karofsky asked.

"Of course!" she said, as if he had meant to tease her and it were all good fun. If he wanted to play games, then she would play, too. She smiled, and his own smile only wavered slightly. "I'm his girl now," she added.

"Funny," Karofsky said, "I never thought Mr. Hudson liked to keep a girl. But, hell, what fellow wouldn't change his ways for a chance with a sweetheart like you?" He spun her again, his dimples showing as he smiled, and Rachel desperately wanted once more to be back at the bar with Sam.

His charm did nothing for her now.

That desperation climbed to new heights inside her when he brought her back close to him and his hand slide from her waist to cradle her back slightly.

"If you'd like," he told her, his voice lower and softer and absolutely nauseating, "you can have tomorrow night off to go to the movies. But you have to promise to tell me what you thought." There was once more a teasing quality to his voice. "Should I pay a nickel to see Mr. Gable?"

"A night off would be lovely," she managed. "And I promise to give you a thorough review."

He chuckled, and his breath brushed across her face. "I'm counting on you now."

If this were a play, and he were the leading man and she the leading lady, surely this would be the moment she swooned at his flirtations and realised her feelings for him, and it would only be a few scenes before she left her steady for this dashing, charming man. But this wasn't a play, and if it were, _Finn_ would be the leading man.

Someone ought to tell Mr. Karofsky that.

The band had started to play a new number, something slow, and their dance had become nothing more than a few circling steps. Karofsky started to say something else, only for his grip around her to stiffen and tighten suddenly, and then she felt a hand on her shoulder.

"Excuse me."

Finn.

_Thank God._

She pulled back from Karofsky, but he kept her hand clasped in his, trapping her there, even as Finn kept his hand on her shoulder. She glanced at him briefly and tried not to start at the sight of his split lip and slightly bruised jaw.

"Mr. Hudson," Karofsky greeted, his expression blank.

"Mr. Karofsky," Finn said. He paused. "You mind if I give my girl a spin around the dance floor before she has to go on stage?" His voice was light, but he stepped closer to Rachel as he spoke, and his chest pressed against her back.

She tried not to lean into him, to _sink_ into him, however much she wanted to.

"Not at all," Karofsky said, and he smiled that charming smile of his. He looked at Rachel. "Thanks for the dance," he told her, his voice softening as he went on. "I've never had a partner who could keep up with me. You're sure to have spoiled me now." He winked at her, and she produced another demure smile, before he finally, _finally_, released her hand.

He had _winked_ at her.

He headed to his table, and Rachel took a shuttering breath as Finn came to stand entirely behind her and wrapped his arm around her waist to secure her to him. He pressed a kiss to her temple. "Thank you," she murmured, and she turned to him, guiding one of his hands to her waist and taking the other in her own hand. Mr. Karofsky surely had an eye on them — they needed to keep up a good act.

She caught sight of his slightly swollen lip and bruised face. "Are you okay?" she asked gently.

"I'm fine," he dismissed. "Are _you_ okay? I'm sorry I couldn't come earlier. As soon as I saw you with him —" He choked a little on his own words, and she felt his hand fist slightly around the material of her dress. He pulled her a little closer, nearly lifting her up off the ground. He was so solid pressed against her, and he smelled so very much like _Finn_.

She wanted to bury her face in his neck and let him take her far, far away from this place.

"We only danced," Rachel assured gently. "He smiled and teased me and tried to flirt. But I made sure he knew I was taken, and I think he understood, even if he still intends to try to woo me." He grew tenser with each word she spoke, and she quickly continued before he could say anything. "And Mr. Puckerman told me you had a fight tonight. I understand. I'm glad you're here now, though." She smiled at him.

She ran her hand down his arm slightly and then up to his shoulder again before she stepped even closer and rested her head against his chest. Slowly, he relaxed. "When I'm not here," he said softly, "please don't come. I'll be here every night, but I won't always be early, and if I can't be early, then don't you be, okay?"

"Finn," she said, because what if he had a fight later in the evening? She _had_ to be here.

"Please, Rachel," he said, pleading with her. "Please. _Please_."

She thought of Jacob Ben Israel.

Hesitantly, she nodded. "Okay," she agreed quietly.

"Thank you," he said. He ran a hand up from her hip to her bare back, and she shivered a little as his hand skated over her skin.

"Do you like my dress?" she asked. She pulled back slightly to let him see, and she beamed when he smiled, nodded, and met her gaze.

"I do," he said. "The beads are pretty."

"I sewed them on myself!" she told him proudly. He grinned.

It would be okay. Everything would be okay. _They_ would be okay.

The song ended, and when Mr. Schuester clapped for attention, they both glanced at the stage. He smiled out at the club, which had grown even more crowded and smoky in the last half hour. "I'd like to invite our very own Ms. Rachel Berry up on stage now. You're all in for a treat!"

Rachel glanced at Finn. "I love you," she said, because she could.

"I love you, too," he whispered, squeezing her hand, and he seemed to say the words carefully, as if they were special, as if they really meant something, and she could barely remember the terror and disorienting charm of Karofsky from only a few minutes ago. She stepped up on her tiptoes to give Finn a quick kiss.

On stage, the lights momentarily blinded her, but she let herself soak in the feeling of attention, of an awaiting audience, and then she signaled the band.

She sang something popular first, something easy to help her warm up, as she hadn't had time to run through her scales beforehand tonight. And as she sang, her eyes adjusted to the bright lights, and she quickly found Finn, his eyes on her as he sat at the bar. Sam was there, too, and Kurt as well, but Rachel didn't spare them a glance.

She smiled a little wider and began her second song, holding Finn's gaze.

She didn't want to see Karofsky. She didn't even want to let her eyes wander to his table. He obviously didn't mean to hurt her, and he wanted Finn to bring in more money and to stay loyal to him, right? As long as she didn't let on, then, that she intended for her and Finn both to escape this awful place, Karofsky would leave them be.

She had to believe that.

Everything would work itself out.

_"They asked me how I knew,/ My true love was true, / Oh, I of course replied, / Something here inside cannot be denied."_

She closed her eyes a little as she went on. She had always loved this song, despite how it ended.

_"__They said someday you'll find, / All who love are blind, / Oh, when your heart's on fire, / You must realize, / Smoke gets in your eyes. / So I chaffed them and I gaily laughed, / To think they could doubt my love, / Yet today my love has flown away, / I am without my love." _

She opened her eyes to find Finn's gaze, to let him know that he would never be without _her_ love, that their song would end so much more happily. But her eyes landed first on someone else who had arrived, who had slipped into a seat beside Finn. Something hot and black and suffocating flushed through her. No. It wasn't possible.

He was dead.

He was _dead_.

She forced herself to go on, to sing the last few lines, even as his eyes locked with hers, and he smiled that disarming smile, that knowing little smirk, as if he could see her very thoughts. She curled her hands into fists.

She had _seen_ him die, yet somehow he was here, in this club, sitting right beside Finn.

_"Now laughing friends deride, / Tears I can not hide, / Oh, so I smile and say, / When a lovely flame dies, / Smoke gets in your eyes. . . ."_

She took a shallow breath, and Jesse St. James never took his gaze off her.

**tbc**

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* * *

**

a/n: fun fact-in the original outline, I actually did have Jesse good and truly dead, but when I mentioned that part of the plot to my friend, she looked at me with wide eyes and exclaimed that I couldn't kill Jesse, because he was her _favourite_ ("if you're willing to read Puckleberry, why don't you read some St. Berry?" Ha. Never gonna happen). She talked me into saving him, and now I think it'll make for a much better plot. I hope you're excited! please review?**  
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	7. Chapter 7

Her voice didn't falter.

But her expression did. For the slightest moment, a kind of frantic terror crossed her face, before suddenly she closed her eyes and belted out the last few lines of the song with a blank face. Finn frowned. What was the matter? He looked for Karofsky _— _he probably had his eye on Rachel, and he'd freaked her out. But Finn spied Karofsky at his usual table, and his head was bent in conversation with Billy Glasson.

Finn looked back at Rachel. She stood stiff as she slowly started another song, and it was all _wrong._ What had happened?

"She's good," someone said.

Finn glanced to the side, and the man who had sat down beside him only moments ago now met his gaze and smiled lazily. "The singer," the man said, nodding at Rachel. He was leaning against the bar on his elbows, and with his brown striped suit and styled hair, he looked like some sort of nancy fellow. Finn looked at Sam _—_ who was this guy? _— _but Sam only shrugged.

"Yeah," Finn finally said. "She's good."

The man's eyes flickered to Sam, telling him, "I'll have a whiskey, dry," before he turned back to Finn. "Good, yes," he went on, "but she doesn't have the emotional depth Ira Gershwin intended for this song to portray." He took the drink Sam slid him. "I'm Jesse, by the way. Jesse St. James." He offered half a smile.

"Finn Hudson," Finn said shortly, watching as the new man's eyes turned back to Rachel.

"Please to meet you, Mr. Hudson," he said, and then he nodded once more at Rachel. "Is she a regular around here, then?" St. James looked back at Finn with a calm, expectant face, and Finn felt his hackles rise. Why did this guy care about Rachel?

"She's the Friday night singer," Sam provided, drawing the man's attention to him before he added curtly, "and she's taken." Finn had always liked Sam.

"Taken?" St. James repeated lightly.

"Has a fellow," Sam clarified, his mouth a thin line. He topped off Finn's glass.

"Does she now?" St. James said, chuckling. "A daddy, I'd suppose, huh?" He smirked as he took a sip of his whiskey.

Finn glared at the man. "She's mine, actually," he said.

"Really?" St. James said, his eyebrows flying up. "Well, then, lucky you. She's a looker _— _and a right bearcat, I'd bet." He grinned a little, as if he were in on a good joke with Finn, and then downed the rest of his whiskey in one go. "Hell, take a look at that face of yours. She get you into that mess?"

"I'm a boxer," Finn said gruffly. If this guy said _one_ more word about Rachel, Finn'd pop him then and there. Try him. Just _try_ him.

"A boxer? Fancy that!" He had a kind of patronising gleam in his eye as he nodded at Finn. "I myself am a performer, as you might have guessed. You'll see me on Broadway one day."

"Sure," Finn said, gritting his teeth.

See, Rachel could make declarations of future stardom cute. And she _would_ be famous someday. This man only made an ass out of himself when he spoke of Broadway. Finn turned to face Rachel once more, determined to ignore the jerk. But he glanced briefly at Karofsky and saw that he, too, had now put his attention on Rachel. Finn's frown deepened.

Honestly, he couldn't catch a break in this place.

Rachel smiled a little, her hips swaying slightly as she sang, but there was still something stilted about her movement, still something guarded in her gaze, and he could see it even from the back of the club. She must have seen or thought of _something_ that had upset her.

"How long have you two been together?" St. James asked.

Finn glared at him.

"You're not a very personable fellow, are you?" St. James asked, his lips twitching. "And not too verbose, either, it would seem."

"And you're not from around here, are you?" Finn replied tersely. This guy was probably harmless, but Finn just didn't want to deal with him. Finn had _enough_ to deal with. Couldn't the man see that?

"No, I'm not," St. James said. "I'm from Ohio, actually."

Rachel was from Ohio, too. But Finn didn't say anything.

"I've been here in Detroit for several months now, however," St. James went on. "But this is the first I've been to McKinley's. I heard this place had excellent entertainment _— _and I had to see for myself, of course. I can't say I'm disappointed. She has excellent range, if nothing else. Has she had formal training?"

"No," Finn said, unable to help himself as he added, with a smidgeon of pride, "she's a natural."

"She would be better with formal training," St. Berry said matter-of-factly. "And perhaps with a little more experience. How old is she, anyway? And she's not from here, either, is she?" He looked sideways at Finn.

And Finn realised he didn't know old Rachel was. He'd never asked, and in all her chatter she had never mentioned her age. It didn't much matter, though. And this jerk certainly didn't need to know. "She's from out west," Finn answered finally, glaring a little again.

"My, you know her well, don't you?" St. James teased.

Finn said nothing. He tried to catch Rachel's gaze from the stage. She had closed her eyes and clasped her hands, though, as she poured herself into the last verse of the song. She looked gorgeous up there, and he smiled a little. He would talk to her about whatever had upset her, and they would work it all out.

He had to believe that. He had to.

"Mmm," St. James said thoughtfully. Finn's jaw tightened. "You know," St. James said, frowning slightly with his gaze on Rachel, "she really shouldn't attempt notes that she can't reach." He nodded, as if to confirm the fact to himself. "If I've said it once, I've said it a thousand times: some people simply don't have the talent for _—_"

Finn slammed his drink down and stood, glaring down at St. James.

"I'm really not interested in what you've got to say," Finn told him.

The man raised his hands up in defence. "Pardon me if I've somehow offended you, Mr. Hudson. I didn't mean to start something, really," he said. "Please. I'll hold my tongue." He smiled, as if to assure Finn of his peace offering, but Finn only shot him one more dark look and then sat back down and nodded down the bar at Sam for another drink.

Moments later, Kurt arrived. "Good evening all," he said, sitting on the other side of Finn. He slammed down his notebook and told Sam he needed something, anything, "and quick!"

"Bad day?" Sam asked.

"Always," Kurt replied, giving an almighty sight. "Ah! But Rachel's on stage. How much have I missed? Did she perform that number by Cole Porter I talked her into a few days ago? It took me _ages_ to convince her to try something by him, and I'd hate to have missed it. But so my life always seems to go!"

"She's only been on for a few songs," Finn said. "And I . . . don't think she's sung anything by, um, your fellow _—"_

"Cole Porter?" Kurt said. "Good!" He watched Rachel for a few minutes, before he took a sip of the cocktail Sam handed him and opened his notebook. "What's the latest, then?" He lowered his voice slightly. "I heard Turner came across Israel this morning and brought him by. What happened?" But he didn't give Sam the chance to answer. "Rats! I forgot my pen. You have one, Finn?"

Finn shook his head. Before Kurt could ask someone else, Jesse held his arm out past Finn. "Here you go," he said, passing a pen to Kurt.

"Thank you," Kurt said. "Mr. . . .?"

"St. James. Jesse St. James."

"Jesse St. —St. James?" Kurt repeated, his face momentarily frozen.

"That's right," St. James said. "And you are?"

"Kurt . . . Hummel. Kurt Hummel." Finally, Kurt smiled at Jesse. "I'm a McKinley's regular, like this one." He thrust his thumb at Finn, who frowned into his drink. Couldn't Kurt _not_ be friendly and all that for once? But then Kurt went on, and his voice took on that reticent tone he only used when he spoke to people like Karofsky.

"Where are you from, Mr. St. James?"

"Ohio," St. James said.

"Really?" Kurt said, but he didn't sound the least bit surprised. He went on, his voice still somehow _off _despite his casual expression. "Our Friday night singer is from Ohio. Have you ever heard of _Lima_?" He added a kind of emphasis to the word.

"Heard of it, yes," St. James said. "I've never been there, though. I'm from Columbus."

Kurt smiled, and he turned to write something in his notebook, but Finn watched in confusion as Kurt's smile stayed plastered on his face in an odd way, and his pen simply hovered over the paper. First Rachel turned all funny, and now Kurt, too? "You okay?" Finn asked quietly.

"Me? Oh — oh, I'm fine!" Kurt said breezily before he scribbled something in his notebook. And then he looked at Fin with a broad smile. "Anyway, what about you? I heard _you_ finally made Rachel your girl."

"I think it went more like Rachel made him her guy," Sam said, razzing. "Doll wore him in."

"Dry up," Finn muttered, and both Sam and Kurt chuckled.

"But what happened with Israel?" Kurt asked again.

Sam didn't look nearly so amused, then. "Got taken care of," he said grimly.

Finn looked at him, and Sam looked at the counter. Finn swallowed thickly. He hated that Sam had to do that sort of thing, like Puck did, like Karofsky expected Finn to do. How could it be helped? He tried to nod reassuringly at Sam, but when he caught his gaze again, Sam told him, his jaw tight, "Rachel saw."

"What?" Finn said. Had she gotten even _more _mixed up with it all?

"I tried to send her to the back, and she was outta the way, but I know she must have seen something, 'cause she . . . she just . . . she saw something." Sam didn't look much interested in sharing any more than that, and he moved down the bar to help someone else.

Finn turned around in his seat to face Rachel on stage again, and he realised that St. James had an eye on him. Had he been listening in on their conversation? He scowled at the lump. "You need something?" he asked.

"No. No, not at all." But St. James smirked as he too turned to face the stage.

Rachel spun a little, and then sort of pranced across the stage, and she winked theatrically at everyone as the song came to a close, and Finn clapped. She looked over at him and smiled slightly as he caught her gaze, but then her eyes flickered to the side for an instant before she focused on the band as they started up yet another song.

"It's a little chilly in here, isn't it?" Kurt asked suddenly. "Excuse me," he said. "I think I could use my coat." He stood and started towards the checkroom, only to stumble and fall _onto_ St. James, who knocked into Finn. St. James's glass fell to the floor and shattered, Finn's drink spilt across the counter, and Kurt pulled back, apologising profusely.

He didn't look nearly as embarrassed, however, as Finn would have been.

"Do you mind?" St. James hissed, rubbing his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, really — so sorry," Kurt said, not sounding the _least_ bit sorry. "Is your shoulder okay? Did I hurt you? Or is that an old wound?" He spoke conversationally.

"I'm fine," St. James snapped.

"Me, too," Finn volunteered.

Kurt shot Finn a grin, but he took on a playfully serious expression as he faced St. James. "Again," he said, "so sorry." And then he nearly _skipped_ off to the coatroom.

Finn looked at Sam, who merely raised his eyebrows as he started to mop up the counter. Finn didn't know what, exactly, Kurt had meant to accomplish with that, a clear _not_ accident, but apparently he had been successful.

When he returned, he had his coat on, but he slipped it off moments after he sat down again. And when Finn looked at him, Kurt merely smiled, pleased with himself, and started to write something in his notebook. He glanced at St. James more than a few times over the next couple of hours, and he never looked very pleased in those moments.

A girl came by and brought Finn and Kurt dinner — he thought her name might be Liz, but he could never keep track of the various waitresses; he really only knew Mercedes — and Puck stopped over at the bar a little after nine. "You got Karofsky's money?" he asked Finn.

Finn shoved the twenty-five dollars at Puck. He didn't want to go sit with Karofsky if he could help it. He _knew_ Karofsky had his eye on Rachel, and Finn didn't know how it would all play out, but he'd put it off as long as he could. And, to his relief, Puck didn't protest. He even handed ten dollars back to Finn. "Take Rachel out someplace nice," he said, grinning, "compliments of Karofsky." His grin faded a little, and he looked at Finn as he had earlier.

"Don't start," Finn said. He stuffed the money back into his pocket. He'd send half to his ma, and, well, maybe he _would_ spend half on Rachel. She deserved more, but he'd still take her out some place nice, and to the movies, and maybe he'd buy her something pretty, too.

"Just as long as you're still thinking about it," Puck replied.

"Thinking about what?" Kurt asked, glancing between them.

"Mind yours," Puck told him easily, before he took the beer Sam offered, clinked the bottle with Finn's glass, and then sauntered back to Karofsky's table.

"Thinking about what?" Kurt repeated.

"Nothing," Finn said, sighing.

But Kurt never gave up on anything that easily. "Karofsky wants you to work for him, doesn't he?" Kurt asked quietly, speculatively, his gaze unrelenting on Finn.

Finn shrugged. He didn't want to talk about it. He didn't even want to _think_ about it.

"Does Rachel know?" Kurt went on.

"Leave it, Kurt," Finn finally said, and slowly, eyeing Finn still, Kurt nodded, and at last he turned once more to his notebook — but not before his eyes flickered inscrutably to St. James again. Finn almost asked him what it was all about, but Rachel had finished her song, and she said a heartfelt goodnight to the club, apparently finished for the evening.

A few people shouted for another song, at which Rachel looked rather pleased, her face already flushed pink, but she still stepped off the stage, and the band started something slow. Finn's gaze followed Rachel as she went to Karofsky's table. She spoke with Mr. Schuester for a moment or two, and then Karofsky said something, and he reached out to rest his hand on Rachel's arm.

Finn started to stand.

But Rachel laughed a little and pulled back. She nodded at something Puck said, and then she was on her way back to the bar, back to him.

"Rachel!" Kurt greeted happily.

"Hello Kurt," she said, smiling briefly at him.

But she didn't pause until her arms were around Finn, surprising him as she clutched him and pressed her face into his neck. He hugged her, running a hand over her back. He started to tell her she'd been good up on stage, but she didn't give him the chance. "I want to go home," she whispered to him. "Can we go now? Please?"

He _knew_ something had upset her.

"Sure," he said, and she pulled back slightly from him, but not too far — her hip stayed pressed to his side; his arm stayed around her waist.

"Rachel," St. James said.

Rachel turned to him, even as she took a shallow breath, and Finn felt her hand curl into a fist around the material of his shirt.

"I heard Mr. Hummel say your name," St. James explained, smiling. "I'm Jesse St. James." He held out his hand. Finn looked at him and looked at Rachel, at her strangely blank expression as she slowly took the offered hand. And then, grasping her hand firmly, St. James swooped down and laid a kiss on her knuckles. Rachel nearly _recoiled_ into Finn.

"It's a pleasure," Rachel said, pulling her hand back. "But I'm afraid I have to go."

Finn took his cue. He stood, keeping an arm around Rachel.

"Already?" Kurt asked.

"That's fine," St. James said, as if they needed his permission. "I live in town, and I plan to come by McKinley's again. I'm sure we'll see each other again soon." He smiled again.

"Yes," Rachel said simply. "Finn?"

"Come on," he said, nodding.

But she paused. "Sam!" she called. Sam looked over at her. And Rachel pulled just far enough away from Finn to lean up on the bar and kiss Sam's cheek. She murmured something to him quickly before she drew back. Finn frowned, unsure what _that_ was about, but, then again, he was pretty unsure of _everything_ tonight.

Rachel gave him a small smile, though, as she looped her arm through his. She said goodnight to Kurt, but she didn't even acknowledge St. James when he wished her the same, and Finn almost felt a kind of satisfaction. He helped Rachel into her jacket, and they left. She sighed as soon as they were outside, and he glanced down at her as he squeezed her hand.

"What happened?" he asked.

"I'm sorry?" she said, blinking up at him.

"What happened?" he repeated. "Something's got to you. Up on stage, you — I mean, you were great, really, but you seemed a little rattled at one point, and . . . we made tracks outta there as soon as you were finished. Is it Karofsky, Rachel? Did he say something to you when you were dancing?" His own alarm seemed to grow as he spoke.

"No, no," Rachel said quickly, stopping and turned to him so as to grip his arms and look up at him properly. "Karofsky only tried to charm me when we danced, I promise. And I purposely avoided his gaze up on stage. Really," she said, stroking his arm. "I'm fine."

He didn't believe her. "Are you sure?" he asked.

"Of course," she said. "Because I'm with you." She smiled a little, and he found he did, too.

"But . . . but something _did_ upset you," he insisted.

She bit her lip. "I saw . . . some of Karofsky's men brought in this small man, and they beat him up, and I didn't see much of it, because Sam sent me into the kitchen, but I did see — accidentally, I did see — Sam — Sam killed him as he tried to run." She said the last few words quickly, as if to soften the blow.

"He mentioned that to me," Finn admitted. "But . . . but that's what Karofsky expects of us."

"Of us?" Rachel repeated. "Finn, you don't . . . I mean . . . have you — have you ever . . .?"

"No," Finn said, and he took a kind of pride in that fact. "No." He repeated, looking at her with wide, honest eyes. She smiled and stepped forward to hug him. But now how could he tell her what Puck wanted of him? She would surely tell him he couldn't, but did she even understand . . .?

"Karofsky," he said, "he . . . everybody around Detroit knows what he's about. He got all his money from bootlegging, and a few bank robberies, and from taking bets. He still does the last one, and he pushes people around, too, but he . . . I try to stay out of it, but. . . ."

But what?

"I know," Rachel said gently. "I know . . . I really do. I understand that Sam . . . I understand his position. Sometimes we do things we aren't proud of because we don't think we have a choice. I know that. I told him — before we left — I told him that I knew he was still a good person."

Finn smiled a little to himself. Rachel really was the sweetest, honestly.

"So . . . that's all? That's what upset you?"

"That's all," Rachel said, smiling softly.

"Why'd you want to leave so quickly?" Finn asked. "Did — did that St. James guy make you uncomfortable? I hope he _doesn't _come around again." He couldn't help it. And maybe Rachel had only met him for a moment, but she didn't seem to like him any more than Finn did.

"He didn't leave the best impression on me, either," Rachel said. "But aren't we turning here?" she asked him, pausing in the street again. "To go to your apartment?"

"You want to — I thought you wanted to go home?" he said.

"With you," she told him, nodding.

Slowly, he smiled. "Okay, then," he said, and they turned down the street.

"I was thinking, actually," she said. "Mrs. Baxter's house is so far from the club, and I pay an awful lot to stay there, and I don't think I'll even want to be there all that often in the future. It might be better, really, financially, even, for both of us — and I honestly see it as an inevitable future, anyway, I mean, let's be honest — and, as I said, it would make good sense if I were to — to move in with you."

He needed a moment to process her words. "You want to move in with me?" he asked, taken aback.

"That doesn't seem too terribly forward, does it?" she asked, glancing up at him timidly. He stared at her. How had this all happened? A few weeks ago, he'd never have imagined that so soon, that so quickly, one person, one tiny broad, would become so _much, _and — "It is too forward," Rachel said, her cheeks flushing. "I'm sorry, Finn. I'm —"

"No," he said, his eyes going wide. "No. I want you to. Move in with me, I mean. More than anything. I want you to move in with me." He didn't care how long he'd known her. He smiled, reaching out and tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.

"Really?" she asked, biting her lip.

"Really," he said.

And she beamed. She started in on how they would have all day tomorrow, as Mr. Karofsky had given her the night off, and she would need to go by Mrs. Baxter's to pick up her things and explain everything to her landlady, because, at the very least, Rachel owed her some sort of explanation.

"Really, I should give her notice before I leave, but I'll pay for the rest of the month, if she wants," Rachel said. "Besides, I doubt she'll want me there anymore now that I have a _lover_ — that's _far_ too _scandalous_ for her!" She giggled in delight.

He only laughed a little. Rachel sounded as if she thought it scandalous to _say_ the word scandalous.

She asked about his fight, then, and he told her that it hadn't been too bad, but he'd lost again. He felt a little bad at the admission, because he was a boxer — it was what he _did_, it was his job, his _livelihood_, and he didn't want her to think he couldn't even hold his own in his job. But she only told him she wished she had been there to cheer for him, and she laced their fingers together.

They reached his apartment, and she led the way up the stairs. "Rachel," he started, the question coming to the front of his mind again as she pushed open the door and reached for her heels. He closed the door behind himself. "How old are you?"

She looked over at him in surprise. "Does it matter?" she asked.

"No — I just realised I didn't know." He shrugged a little sheepishly. "I'm twenty-four, if you wanted to know."

She smiled. "It's funny, isn't it?" she said. "I feel like I've known you forever, but we haven't even told each other who old we are. I'm nineteen." She came over and reached up to rest her hands on his shoulders. "I was born December 18th, 1914."

He nodded. They stood there, then, and she gazed at him sweetly, all traces of her earlier unease gone, and he wondered suddenly how long he would have to wait before he bought her a ring. That kind of thinking was crazy, of course, _completely crazy_, because he had really only known her a matter of weeks, and they'd been together for, what, a day? Hell, he had only just _now_ learned how old she was, but — but what, maybe a month? Should he wait a month to buy a ring?

Two? Two and a half? That seemed about right. He could wait two and a half months.

"Finn," Rachel said, her thumb tracing the collar of his shirt. "I'm going to kiss you now, okay?"

He laughed a little, even as she stood on her tiptoes to press her lips to his. His hands went to her waist, and he pulled her flush to him. She giggled into his mouth as he ran his hands down until he reached the hem of her dress, and then he let them slide back up _beneath_ her dress and over her stockings until his fingers felt skin. He kissed her harder, then, unable _not_ to, and she pressed still closer to him, her own hands coming to hold his face, her thumbs stroking his temples.

"Rachel," he said, "I'm going to take you to bed now, okay?"

She spoke breathlessly, but she still managed to reply with a prim "Yes, please." He laughed as he hoisted her up, her legs wrapping around his waist as she lightly bit his ear and then kissed her way down his jaw and to his throat.

Maybe he _couldn't_ wait two and a half months. Crazy, sure, but he kind of loved a little crazy.

* * *

_"It's all I could do for him! It's all I could do! I'm so sorry, sweetheart, so sorry, but I had to, don't you see? I had to! It's all I could do, sweetheart, it's all I could do. . . ._"

She could still remember it all so clearly, remember the way he clutched her arms, his eyes wide and despairing. She could still remember how she had talked him down, and how she helped him, because it was all _she_ could do for the man she loved most, too, and . . . and what was done was done, and that's how it went. She helped him.

And when the town turned on her, as if they knew everything when they could barely begin to know _anything_, she simply left, and she took the blame with her.

How could she explain that to Finn?

She looked over at him, sprawled across the bed on his belly. He looked like a little child, his hair messy and a little drool on his chin. She smiled and traced her hand ever-so-lightly across the planes of his back. If she told him the truth, he wouldn't care, would he? He would love her still, and he would understand. But, still, to tell him _everything_ . . . but she would have to, wouldn't she?

Because Jesse was _alive_, and he was _here_, and even if he wanted to pretend they didn't know one another, he had still made his intention to see her again clear. Did he mean to pay her back for what she'd done? Did he mean to turn her into the police?

But she'd turn around and turn_ him_ in. And she hadn't even done anything wrong, not — not _really_. She swallowed thickly. Sam could say the same, couldn't he? It all depended on what a person called _wrong_. But — but she had only meant to _protect _— to _help_ — to . . . Jesse was the one to blame for everything, really. And her mother, too — they were really the ones at fault. But —

She had the night off today. She forced her mind to that thought. She could have a whole day with Finn, a whole day and a whole night. They could go to the movies, and they could practice the Lindy Hop, and they could lie in bed and, oh, it could be a very good day.

She simply wouldn't think about Jesse, or about Karofsky, or about anything wrong or bad.

Maybe she would even gather the courage to tell Finn the _whole_ story. She trusted him, after all, and he _would_ understand. She frowned a little, though, because the last man she'd trusted had been _Jesse_, and look how that had all ended.

But she had never trusted Jesse like she had trusted Finn. She had never trusted _anybody_ like she trusted Finn.

She watched him for a moment. She would go out to the market, and she'd make a big breakfast for them, and she'd find time to worry later. "Finn," she murmured. "Finn, wake up for a moment, darling."

He grunted, his arm circling her and dragging her clear across the bed so that she lay crushed right beside him. "Finn," she protested, giggling. "I need to go to the store, but I'll only be gone an hour or so."

"Mmm," he muttered, and he placed a wet, sloppy kiss on her shoulder, probably because his lips found that patch of skin first. She giggled again and then untangled herself from him. "Where're'ou going?" he asked sleepily as she sat up.

"To the store," she repeated. "Stay asleep. I'll be back soon, I promise."

"Stay," he muttered. "Store's stupid."

"Sleep," she said again gently, and then she stood from the bed. Again, she watched him for a moment. He looked so . . . so _perfect_. She did trust him. She _loved_ him. She sighed a little happily to herself and then dressed.

It only took her a few minutes to compose herself, and she still had a few dollars left in her coat from last week. She tried to save two dollars every week, if she could, and she had so far managed (though it hadn't been long, of course). She would try to save two again this week, but she thought she ought to go _all_ out for this breakfast. Who knew when she'd have another night off?

She knew she should be more sensible, she really should, but something about Finn made her lose her senses entirely.

Half way to the store, she changed her course and returned to Mrs. Baxter's house. She packed her things quietly. She didn't have much — two bags that held clothing, a few books, and some records she had brought with her, though her mother had sold her dad's phonograph. She had to pack her toiletries, too, and her father's small grandfather clock, one of her most treasured possessions.

She changed into a sensible pink smock and floral skirt, too.

She would drop her bags back off at Finn's and then head to the store. She passed Mrs. Baxter as she left, and the woman only watched her with narrowed eyes. Rachel started to say something, but Mrs. Baxter crossed her arms over her chest, as if she _dared_ Rachel even to try.

Rachel sighed. "Thank you very much for everything," Rachel told her. "Here — instead of notice." She held the dollar out to Mrs. Baxter, but the older woman turned up her nose and stalked out of the hallway and into the kitchen.

She didn't need to act like _that._ And how could Mrs. Baxter's life have possibly been so wonderful that she didn't understand when everything wasn't so simple? Had Mrs. Baxter ever been in love? She was a widow now, sure, but she had once had a husband. Had she forgotten that kind of love?

Rachel decided she ought to feel bad for poor Mrs. Baxter.

Half an hour later, when Rachel dropped her bags off at Finn's apartment, the boy was still asleep, although from the doorway of the bedroom, she saw that he had flipped onto his back. She blew him a quiet kiss and then hurried off to the market. It was nearly eight in the morning now, and it was always best to go to the store early.

She felt particularly good all of a sudden, as if the rest of her day would surely go well now that she had managed to accomplish something. She bought a dozen eggs, but only half a pound of bacon, which always cost a fortune. She picked up a few other things as well, though — like ingredients for bread, some juice, some fresh peas at an absolute _steal_, and some corn flakes, too, because Finn had once mentioned that he loved them.

She had her bag of groceries in hand and was already out of the shop when someone called out to her. "Good morning, Rachel!"

She spun around, her bag slipping as her eyes went wide. _Oh, God._ Why did this have to happen? _Why_? She glanced around, but there was hardly anyone around at all, except for her and him.

"Here," he said, "let me give you a hand." But she stumbled back from him. He only chuckled. "Goodness, Rachel, there's no need to act that way." He straightened and smiled his familiar condescending smile.

"What do you want?" she asked sharply. "How did you find me?"

Jesse sighed. "I take it you aren't happy to see me. And, alas, here I'm absolutely _thrilled_ to see you." He smiled again, and she gripped her groceries tightly, glaring at him. He hadn't changed at all — still so confident, still so self-assured, still so very arrogant. She had once mistaken that arrogance for a kind of charm and talent. She wouldn't again.

"Why have you come to Detroit?" she demanded, speaking more bravely than she felt. "I don't want anything to do with you."

Again, he laughed. "I'm afraid I came to Detroit long before you did," he said. "I've been here for nearly six months, sweetie."

"Don't call me that," she replied.

But he only stepped closer to her. "Really, Rachel," he said, "keep up talk like that and you'll break my heart." He reached out to brush her cheek, but she turned her face stubbornly away from him. She hated him. She _hated_ him. There didn't exist a soul on this earth that she hated more.

"Always turning away," he said, sighing dramatically yet again. "Do you remember when we went out to that lake last summer, and we sang together? I'll never forget. I nearly kissed you that night, but you turned away. Always away, but how could I blame you? You are — were — far too sweet for anything else, far too innocent." His expression turned somehow sour, somehow almost malicious. "But now you go home with a _boxer_?"

"I don't know what you want," Rachel snapped, "but I really don't care. Stay away from me."

"Or you'll do what?" he asked, sounding amused. He smirked. "Tattle to Daddy?"

"Don't," she breathed, her heart suddenly thudding again her chest painfully. "Don't you _dare_." She held his gaze, refusing to let him talk down to her. "If you don't leave me alone, Jesse, if you don't stay far away from me and my _boxer_, I'll call the police. I will."

"And what will you tell them?"

"I'll them you're a murderer," she said, "that's what I'll tell them. I'll tell them you shot a man in cold blood." She glared furiously at him. She wouldn't be afraid of him. She _wouldn't_.

He stepped even closer to her, though, his face calm as he tilted his head at her. "And I'll tell them," he replied softly, "that _you_ have, too."

"I've — I've never killed anybody," she said. "I've never. . . ."

"Never?" He grinned that terrible, _terrible_ grin, and she wanted to turn point blank and _run_. "Funny," he went on coolly, "I seem to recall quite clearly the gun in _your_ hand."

"I've never killed anybody," she repeated, trying not to let her voice tremble. "_Never._"

"Ah, but you thought you had, didn't you?" He said, wagging his finger at her. "After all, you wouldn't have been _nearly_ so startled to see me if you knew I was still alive. And, let's be honest, sweetie — it's the will to kill somebody that really matters, isn't it?"

She took a shaky breath, but she didn't tear her gaze from his. "I'd do it again if I had to," she said coldly. "I would. I wish I had done it right the first time. I wish you were dead. And if you don't stay away from me —"

He laughed. "You're adorable, sweetie, the most adorable girl I've ever met."

"Don't call me that!" she said.

"Oh, fine, then, have it your way," he said, sighing. "I'll be honest with you, Rachel. I really didn't come to Detroit for you. I came to make my name famous, to receive the praise my talent deserves — to go on Broadway, just like I always told you I would." He smiled slightly. "But I heard mention of a new canary at this club, a pretty, petite girl who could really _sing, _and I couldn't help my curiosity."

She didn't know what to say. He went on without any prompt, however.

"I must admit," he said, smirking, "I took a kind of delight in your surprise. But I don't mean you any harm; really, I don't. I wish you wouldn't be so angry with me, of course, but I suppose I understand. You needn't worry. As far as I'm concerned, you and I are even."

"Even?" she repeated.

"That's right," he said, nodding. "I killed the person you loved most, and you tried to kill the person I love most — myself." He grinned, displaying his beloved white, even teeth, and she looked away, clutching her bag even closer to her chest, as if her groceries could ward him off.

"Then you'll leave me alone?" she asked. "You'll stay away from McKinley's?"

"I never said that," he told her.

She looked back at him, frowning. "But —"

"I don't mean you any harm, but can you blame me for wanting a little more of your company? I've never met a girl like you." He reached out, probably to tap her nose fondly like he used to do, and she angrily swatted his hand away.

He laughed, and she wanted to scream. "I asked your fellow about you. He didn't seem to know much — about you or _anything_, in fact. I must say — I always imagined you with someone who had, if not talent, at least actual _brains_."

"I'll have you know," Rachel said, indignant now on top of everything else, "that Finn has _both_ — in spades!"

Again, Jesse only chuckled. "If you say so, swee —"

"I said _don't_ call me that."

She glared at him, he smiled, and finally he nodded and stepped back. "I'll be on my way, then. I merely wanted to assure you that you needn't worry. I've forgiven you, and your dark secrets are safe with me." He winked.

For goodness' sake, couldn't he and Karofsky wink at _each_ _other_ and leave her alone?

She watched him walk away and then disappear around a corner. She took a few slow, calming breaths. He claimed he meant her no ill, but he didn't intend to leave her alone? What did he expect? She had once thought perhaps she might fall in love with him, but he had long since corrected her of _that_ mistake, and she never wanted anything to do with him again.

She really _did_ wish that she'd killed him.

No. No, that wasn't true. She had always told herself that she didn't really kill him, that he died by his own hand, that he brought it on himself, and she had only meant to protect the last person around who still cared about her. But now she could be honest with herself. She _had_ been the one to shoot him, but she hadn't killed him.

And she had Finn now, and he'd help her, and before long Jesse St. James would be nothing more than an awful, awful memory.

"Rachel?"

For a moment, her heart nearly stopped. But Kurt smiled cautiously as he approached her, and she forced herself to smile, too. "Good morning, Kurt," she said. "How are you?"

"Oh, I'm lovely," he replied. "But how are you?" Concern shone in his eyes.

"I'm fine," she said.

"Really? You seem a little shaken." And he lowered his voice. "If it helps," he said, "I thought he was dead, too."

Her heart _did_ stop. "I'm sorry?" she said, her words more breathless than she intended.

"Jesse St. James," Kurt replied.

"I don't —" She shook her head. "I don't know . . . what — I don't know what you mean —" What should she say? What _could_ she say? He must have seen her with Jesse, but —

"It's okay," Kurt assured gently, "I heard everything."

"You . . ." She only stared at him.

"Rachel," Kurt said, and he touched her arm. "We can help each other."

**tbc**

a/n: a little shorter than the last few chapters, I know, but the next chapter should be a whopper (at least in length). Also, I hope you liked this one-it's the last chapter until the epilogue (I think, I may change my mind) from Rachel's POV. Finn kind of takes center stage from here on out. Anyway, what'd you think?


	8. Chapter 8

_a/n: If you're interested, you can listen to all of the songs I've used on grooveshark (dot) com, although sometimes only by later artists who recorded the song, not the original artists. If you want to listen to "Sing, You Sinners," for example, I'd recommend the version by Tony Bennett, even though Lillian Roth sang the original version._

* * *

"_Brothers_," St. James called.

"_Sisters_," Rachel sang.

"_Listen to what we say. / Moaning and groaning won't dry those blues away. / Lifted up your voices in song, / You know you've all done wrong, you sinners. _"

Rachel sounded good up there, just like always, but Finn wanted to storm on stage and pop St. James, pop that arrogant smirk right off his smug face. Rachel started to smile, though, as the chorus started, as if she couldn't resist how much she loved to sing, even alongside that jerk.

"_Drop everything, / Let the harmony ring / Up to Heaven, / Sing, you sinners! And just wave your arms all about. / Let the Lord hear you shout. / Pour the music right out / And sing, you sinners!"_

"I've never heard this one," Sam said.

"It's from _Honey_," Kurt said, writing something. He finished and glanced up. "Not a spectacular movie, if you ask me, but Lillian Roth can sure sing."

Finn turned back to Rachel. St. James had apparently talked his way into a show tonight. He'd come by on Saturday and, while Finn _finally_ took Rachel out to see _It Happened One Night_, he'd met Karofsky and offered to give a one-night show on Sunday.

At least, Finn _hoped_ it was a one-night show. He knew he shouldn't despise St. James the way he did, he really shouldn't, but the fellow came by the club, flirted with Rachel, and then roped her up onto stage with him. Finn couldn't help it.

"_Whenever there's music, / the devil kicks_," Rachel sang, St. James simply circling around her a little, nodding along. "_He don't allow music / By the river Styx._"

"_You're wicked and you're depraved,_" St. James sang. "_And you've all misbehaved. / If you wanna be saved, / Sing, you sinners!_" He grinned widely. "_Well, up until now, / we've been asking everybody to sing," _he said,_ "but if you won't sing, / come on, dance. . . ._"

"_Go dance, swing,_" Rachel sang.

"_Go, yeah, swing, swing, bot-dot-ba0do-dae! / Swing, swing_!" and their voices carried the one word higher and higher. St. James took Rachel by the hand suddenly and twirled her around, and Finn watched them dance, watched them _swing_ dance, just like Rachel loved. St. James was good — Finn hated him more for it.

"_Swing, swing, swing, you sinners!"_

Their impromptu dance ended, and Finn made his fist relax. "_Whenever there's music, / the devil kicks, / He don't allow music, / By the river Styx,_" St. James sang, as much the performer as Rachel.

"_You're wicked and you're depraved,_" Rachel sang, "_and you're all misbehaved. / Oh, if you wanna be saved —_" and St. James joined her — "_If you wanna be saved, / Well, sing, you sinners_!"

The song ended, everyone applauded, and Kurt declared, "He really isn't so bad!"

"Rachel's better," Finn grumbled.

"Oh, of course," Kurt replied, nodding. "You know, the more I listen to her, the more I think she really could be famous some day. Imagine that — we'd know a Broadway _star_!" He smiled a little to himself and started to write again in his notebook.

"I thought you were gonna be a star," Mercedes said, nearly _dropping_ a tray of plates down on the bar. "That's what you always used to say, wasn't it, back when you first started coming around here?" She smirked.

"I've haven't the faintest recollection of that," Kurt replied coolly.

Mercedes only laughed. "How's the next great American novel coming along, anyway?"

He smiled but said nothing, and Finn didn't bother to listen when Mercedes went on. He watched Rachel as she drew back from Jesse's gesturing hand, shaking her head, and tried to leave the stage. Finn frowned. If she wanted to come back to the bar, he'd be more than willing to go up there and carry her off the stage.

St. James shouted out to the club and asked if they wanted Rachel to stay for another song. Finn hated those drunks that roared in approval, but when Rachel returned to the center of the stage and caught Finn's eye, he smiled. He thought of yesterday.

She made this huge breakfast, so proud of herself, and then she started to move in, to arrange her clothing in his wardrobe and to line up her toiletries in his bathroom cabinet. They went out, and she bought a plant to put on the bedroom windowsill — to _lighten_ the room up, she explained. And that was in. He and Rachel lived together. They celebrated with dinner at this fancy place, and then to the movies, and she cried and laughed and clapped and shouted as Clark Gable toppled the wall of Jericho at the end.

"You'll be in a movie like that some day," he'd told her. She'd beamed, and she'd begun to rave about all the movies she'd ever seen, and she'd kept it up the entire walk home — home to _their_ apartment. He grinned at the thought.

"Oh, have a look at that dopey smile," Mercedes commented. "Somebody's dizzy with a dame."

"Somebody's _living_ with a dame," Sam told her.

"What?" Kurt said, turning to Finn. "You and Rachel have shacked up?" Finn tried to reply, but Kurt went on without pause. "For crying out loud!" he exclaimed. "How come nobody ever tells me _anything_? And didn't you two meet three or so days ago?"

"I — no, we — how did you even know?" Finn asked Sam, trying not to let his cheeks burn.

"Rachel announced it as soon as you two arrived," Sam explained, grinning. "You went to check your coat, she said, _Hi, Sam, yesterday I moved in with Finn, can I have an Orange Blossom?_, and that was that."

_Of course she did_, Finn thought.

Mercedes laughed, though. "That girl _slays_ me!" But then she smiled at Finn, her eyes softening a little. "Good on you, boy," she offered, her voice genuine, and Finn smiled slightly, lowering his eyes to the bar. Rachel had told him pieces of her conversation with Mercedes, enough for him to know that Mercedes had encouraged their relationship.

"Thanks," he finally said.

"What's the story, then?" Kurt pushed. "You two kiss, you tell her you can't see her, she tells you otherwise, and now you're living together? What did I miss? _Spill_. Right now."

Finn glanced to Rachel on stage as she tilted her face up, eyes closed, and finished the last few verses of her song. "It was, um, for financial reasons," he said.

Kurt snorted. Finn couldn't stop the heat that crawled up his face, and he ignored Mercedes's laughter as she picked up her tray and bustled back to the kitchen. He glared at Sam, who only continued to grin widely, even as he walked down the bar to serve some fellow.

"Jeez Louise, Finn," Kurt went on. "Honestly, listen to you. Haven't you ever heard of romancing a girl?"

Small hands curled around Finn's shoulders. "He's very romantic," Rachel said, and she kissed the back of his head. Her arms slipped forward to wrap around him. He could make out the sound of St. James's voice in the background, and he was glad Rachel had finally managed to come back.

"Ooh, tell me more, tell me more," Kurt said, his eyes alight.

Finn started to protest, but Rachel barely even glanced at Kurt. "Oh, it'd bore you," she said lightly, and she sat beside Finn, facing slightly away from Kurt. Finn didn't miss the way Kurt's face tightened slightly, almost _unpleasantly_. Had Rachel and Kurt had a scrap? How did Finn manage to miss these things?

Rachel ordered an Orange Blossom, and Kurt scribbled in his notebook, and Finn decided he must be so on edge lately he had started to make up crazy scenarios in her head. Mercedes came back a few minutes later, and she brought dinner, staying long enough to tease Rachel. "I knew when you flounced into this old place with that outrageous hat of yours that you were looking for a fellow," she said, "I just didn't think you'd get one with that hat."

"I'll have you know," Rachel said coolly, "that while I completely understand why everyone would expect the attractive and talented boxer and the stunning young ingénue to be together, I came to McKinley's for my career, not for a steady."

Mercedes only laughed, as Kurt said, "But it really was a dreadful hat!"

Rachel scoffed. "You like it, don't you?" she asked Finn eagerly.

"I _loved_ it," Sam offered, grinning.

"Me, too," Finn said quietly, smiling at her. She wouldn't be _Rachel_ if she didn't love stupid hats and beaded flowers and too much lace and ruffles.

She beamed and then turned to Kurt and declared "You see!" as if vindicated. Half an hour later, she talked Finn out onto the dance floor to practice the Lindy Hop with her. He only missed a step now and then, and she only giggled each time, but he was still grateful when the band _finally_ played something slow, even if Finn had to listen to St. James croon in the background.

"He really is rather talented," Rachel said softly.

"Who? St. James?" Finn scoffed. She didn't meet his gaze. "You're much better than him, you know," he offered gently.

"Oh, I know," Rachel said, looking up and smiling briefly. "I simply don't like him very much."

"Me neither," Finn said. "Does he plan to stay around for a while?"

"I honestly don't know," Rachel said, "but I . . . I think he does. I don't think Karofsky will give him a job, though. I had the impression that Karofsky wanted _female_ entertainment." Finn frowned at the implications of that, but Rachel went on hesitantly before he could say anything. "I certainly don't want to suffer through any more performances with Mr. St. James. I didn't want to sing with him tonight," she admitted. "Still, I won't let anything get in the way of a performance."

"You were good," he told her, and she smiled softly again. But there was something off in her gaze, something hesitant, and he waited for a moment as she toyed a little with a loose string on the shoulder of his shirt. "Rachel?" he finally asked.

"There's something I should tell you," she murmured, "about . . . about Mr. St. James. And me."

Finn tensed. "Did he do something to you?" he asked. When? How? _What_? Finn would kill him.

"No, I mean . . . he's from Ohio, Finn."

Confused, Finn nodded. "He mentioned that on Friday, actually," he said.

"Columbus, if I remember right," Rachel continued. "Last summer, though, his grandmother was ailing, and he came to stay with her in Lima. That's when I met him." Taking a slow breath, she tore her gaze from the top button of his shirt and looked him in the eye.

"You — you met him in Lima a year ago?" he asked. "You two already know each other?"

She nodded, biting her lip. "I don't know why he wants to pretend he doesn't know me, but I wish I didn't know him. I'm sorry I didn't say something to you sooner, but he — he alarmed me, Finn, when I suddenly saw him here, sitting right beside you, on Friday night."

"That's what upset you on Friday night?" he asked slowly.

Again, she nodded. "I don't like him, Finn," she said quietly.

He couldn't believe this. But he waited, and she went on, and he listened in silence.

"He took me out a couple of times," she said. "I must confess that he charmed me. He seemed so talented. But all that way gave way to arrogance, of course, and I wanted nothing to do with him when I realised the sort of person he really was." She paused. "Are you upset?"

"No," he said quietly. "I don't think so. Why didn't you tell me yesterday? Or Friday night?"

"I — he scares me, Finn. He slept with my mother, and he fought with my father, and . . . and when I left Lima, I never expected to see him again." Her voice trembled slightly, and her eyes were wide. He couldn't _stand_ to see her like this.

He took her face and tilted her gaze back to meet his. "_Did_ he hurt you?" he asked softly.

"No," she said. She smiled a little. "I really don't want him anywhere near me, though. He, Finn — remember when I told you that my father had been murdered? Finn, he was murdered by Mr. St. James. I know he was. Nobody had any proof, but I _know_ —"

"He won't touch you, Rachel," Finn breathed. "I swear he won't." He clutched her closer, and they were hardly dancing anymore, only swaying a little, and he brushed a hand over his back and up to cradle her head.

"I believe you," she whispered. She rested her head on his chest, and even when the music changed, she stayed that way.

The rest of the night passed slowly. Rachel tried whiskey for the first time, taking dainty sips from Finn's glass, and she made him play Go Fish. When the club began to empty, Sam offered to show her how to make an Orange Blossom, and she excitedly leaned over the bar to watch as he demonstrated.

And Finn took his chance. St. James had finished his performance an hour or so ago, and he now sat at a table with a few fellows near the stage. Finn told Rachel he needed to help Mercedes, Rachel nodded absently and didn't take her eyes from Sam's lesson, and Finn went right to the table.

"Mr. Hudson, what a surprise," St. James said, smiling widely. "Did you enjoy my performance tonight?"

"We need to talk," Finn said, glaring coldly. "_Now_."

"Oh, do we?" St. James asked, eyes widening with polite, mild interest. "Something the matter

Finn grabbed him by the elbow and yanked him to his feet. Startled, St. James stumbled a little, only to regain his footing and let his slick smile become a sneer. "Do you _mind_?" he hissed furiously. "You may —"

"I'm sure you've got a real smart bit to say," Finn said. "But I'm not interested." He grabbed St. James's arm and twisted, slamming the man's wrist down on the table and relishing the squeal of pain St. James let out. "Stay away from Rachel," he told him coldly.

"Did she —"

Finn popped him, and St. James tumbled back against the table. Half the club glanced over.

"And don't say another word to me, or to her, _ever_ again," Finn snapped. He turned away.

"You might think you're _tough_, Mr. Hudson —"

Finn whirled around, went for his stomach once, his face again, and then his stomach once more, before he pinned him against the table and leaned down close. "I don't know where you think you are," Finn said, his voice low, "but let me help you out — you've left Lima, Ohio, and you're _nothing_ here. I don't care who've you killed. Stay away from me, from this club, and from _Rachel_, or you'll be the next person _I've_ killed."

He released St. James, who finally said nothing, and Finn stalked back to the bar, where Rachel stood with her mouth open a little. "Let's go," he told her, holding out his hand. She glanced at St. James, at Kurt, and then at Finn, and she took his hand.

"Finn," she murmured. Kurt wrote furiously in his notebook, Sam nodded slightly in approval, and Finn tugged Rachel out of the club, not stopping to collect his coat. He didn't need one, anyway. "_Finn_," she repeated, tugging on his arm to bring his gaze to her as she stopped in the middle of the empty street and forced him to stop, too. "What was that?"

"I told him to mind his own fucking potatoes," Finn said, adrenaline still pumping through him. But Rachel's eyes only went wider, and Finn quickly apologised. "I mean — look, he should leave you alone after this. If he doesn't, I'll have _Puck_ talk to him. The boy'll be so scared he'll never step foot in Detroit again, let alone McKinley's."

"Who you want me to scare?" Puck asked, and Finn and Rachel both spun around to face him. "That singer you roughed up back there? Just say the word, Hud, just say the word." He grinned a little. When Finn and Rachel said nothing, Puck's grin faded slightly. "Karofsky wants to talk to you," he said.

"About St. James?" Finn asked. "Look, if he's bent about —"

"No, it ain't about that, I don't think," Puck said. "He's had an eye on you all night. He wants you to come by the club tomorrow morning. Try nine, and come around the back."

That couldn't be good. But Finn nodded curtly.

"I'll let you go," Puck said. "Ms. Berry." He tipped an imaginary hat at her, even as he backed away and returned to the club. But at the door he glanced back. "Remember what we talked about, Hudson!" he called, and he disappeared into McKinley's before Finn could reply. They both stared at the club for a minute, and then Rachel met Finn's gaze again.

"Do _you_ think it's about Mr. St. James?" she asked quietly.

"I don't see why Karofsky would care about him," Finn said. "But, honestly? I almost hope it _is_ about St. James." He paused, and Rachel said nothing. "You angry?" he asked. Slowly, she shook her head. "I meant what I told you," he murmured. "I won't let St. James near you."

"I don't want him to hurt you, either," she said quietly.

"He won't," Finn promised. He cupped her cheek, and she leaned into his hand a little, kissing his palm.

"It's a little romantic, you know," she said, "you defending me like that." She smiled. "You really are a romantic. And I'm not angry. I promise." She took his hand again, and he smiled, too. She leaned up to kiss him sweetly. His anger had fled, and he refused to think about tomorrow, to let apprehension take over.

"Let's go home," Rachel breathed. He only nodded.

They didn't talk on the short walk to his apartment, and they didn't talk when they arrived, but when she lay beside him in bed, she started to talk about her father. She talked about his beloved books, and when he took her fishing in the summer, and how he taught her to swim. She talked about the snow castles he would build with her in the winter, and how he would buy her a beautiful dress every year for the eighth day of Hanukkah.

And then, slowly, softly, she started to talk about St. James, how she met him, and how he tried to kiss her and she found herself too intimidated by the very idea, and he lost interest in her quickly.

Finn kind of wanted to punch St. James again.

She started to talk about her mother, then, and her mother and St. James, but she seemed unable to finish. After a few minutes of silence, he talked about his own mother, about his own childhood, and he felt her smile into his shoulder when he described his failed attempts to build snow forts every year. She fell asleep before too long, and that's when the worry finally flushed over him.

Karofsky really wouldn't want to talk about St. James. What _did_ he want to talk about, then?

Finn fell asleep at some point, too, but he awake before six, his first thought on the girl curled up beside him, his second on Karofsky, who wanted him to come by in only a few hours. He tried not to wake Rachel, but he managed to anyhow, and she promised to make him a big breakfast while he was gone.

At quarter 'till, he kissed her and left, and he reached McKinley's far sooner than he wanted.

He had no choice but to circle around to the back of the building, though, and despite how slowly he climbed the fire escape stairs, dread building inside him, he reached the top eventually.

He had been around this back way plenty of times before — at least six or seven, he'd say — but he still felt out of place, felt as if he were doing something he shouldn't. He _wished_ he weren't supposed to be here. He wished he could turn around and go back to the apartment, back to Rachel. He didn't want to go up there and talk to Karofsky — whatever he wanted couldn't be good.

But Finn steeled himself, knocked on the door, and said nothing as Turner opened the door and let Finn pass him by into the apartment. The narrow, dim entrance way let do a narrow, dim kitchen with old fixtures, a high ceiling, and a counter full of guns.

Finn pretended not to see the heat, and he didn't much have to work to divert his gaze.

Karofsky sat at the long kitchen table, his legs propped up as he smoked, and he stared expectantly at Finn. "Have a seat," he said blankly. Finn pulled back a chair. Turner handed him a bottle of skee, and Finn took a swig, handing it back. Karofsky nodded at Turner, who left. No one else was there, and Finn tried not to fidget as Karofsky smoked and stared and said nothing.

"How are you?" Finn finally asked, immediately suppressing a wince at his own dumb words. But he couldn't take any more silence.

Karofsky slowly blew out a ring of smoke. "I heard you got a girl," he said.

"Yes," Finn murmured quietly. The word barely came out. He cleared his throat. "Yes. I do."

_This_ is what Karofsky wanted to talk about?

"I heard she's my singer," Karofsky went on. "Is that right, Mr. Hudson? Are you screwing _my_ singer?" He didn't sound angry, but Finn knew that a cold, disinterested voice from Karofsky meant nothing good. He didn't simply wanna nod and say yes, though. Finn wasn't — he wasn't just _screwing_ Rachel, and she definitely wasn't _Karofsky's _singer, and —

"I asked a question, Hudson," Karofsky said. His feet hit the ground with a thud.

"We're together," Finn said finally. He nodded and smiled tightly. "I'm with her." That didn't sound too bad, right? Karofsky couldn't steam up over that, could he?

"I see," Karofsky said. "I didn't know you were looking for a girl."

"I — I wasn't."

"You thinking of settling down?" His tone had turned light now. "Getting married? Having a few juniors, huh?"

"What? No — we only — we've only dated a few weeks."

Somehow Karofsky always managed to reduce Finn to a bumbling lame-brain.

"She's not much to you, then?" Karofsky asked. "You just like to hear her _sing_ after she spreads her legs?" He nearly leered, then, and Finn's jaw locked a little. He wouldn't let Karofsky talk that way about Rachel. He wouldn't let Karofsky get away with whatever he wanted just 'cause he was _Karofsky_. Rachel would want him to stand up for himself, for _them_.

"It's not like that," Finn said, and he went for broke. "She's staying with me now."

"So you _are_ thinking of settling down," Karofsky said, no question in his voice but instead a heavy helping of _triumph_. Finn didn't know what the game was, but he had a feeling he was losing. "I'm beginning to think you aren't being honest with me, _Finn_."

Finn sat up a little straighter. He could act more courageous than he felt, he _could_.

"What's there to be honest about?" he asked, trying to sound as if they were only punching the bag. "I didn't think you wanted the daily word on my love life."

Karofsky smiled, his eyes calculating, as he finished off his cigar. "You wanna marry her?"

"Why does it matter?" Finn asked, still defiant. Maybe if he stood his ground, Karofsky would leave he and Rachel be, at least as far as their relationship with one another went. Rachel and Finn together and steady could hardly matter _that_ much to Karofsky.

Finn _had_ to stand his ground.

Karofsky's eyebrows flew up. "Will you listen to that?" he said, chuckling slightly. "I didn't know you had it in you, Finn. And you know what?" He leaned forward in his seat, and his face distorted, all signs of amusement gone. "I'm not sure I like it," he snapped. "Now answer my question. You gonna marry that skirt or not?"

"Yes," Finn said, holding his gaze. "I am."

"And then what?" Karofsky asked. He leaned back in his seat and took out another cigar. "You gonna go off to New York, is that it? I've heard the kitten talk. She's gonna be _famous_." Karofsky chuckled, and the sound made Finn a little sick.

He didn't say anything.

"Well?" Karofsky pushed. "You gonna run out on me?"

"Look, Mr. Karofsky," Finn said, gripping his own knees. "Detroit ain't much my sorta place. I've been here for longer than I ever wanted to be. I wanna get out. Go some place where I — where I can start fresh and all that."

"And what about me?" Karofsky asked calmly.

"It doesn't have anything to do with you," Finn said. Couldn't Karofsky see that? Why did he even care if Finn left — it's not as if Finn even brought in all that much money. And he'd keep Karofsky's secrets as long as Karofsky kept his.

"It doesn't have anything to do with me?" Karofsky repeated. "You forget all I've done for you?"

"I —"

"You'd been in the hotsquat years ago if it weren't for me," Karofsky said, flaring up. "And I find you jobs, and I give you all the hooch you want, and you wanna toss me aside for the first pair of bubs that catches your eye?"

"It's — it's not like that," Finn protested weakly. "I — I know you've done a lot for me. But I —"

"I didn't do all that for nothing, kid," Karofsky said sharply. "I count on you to remember that. I don't ask much of you. I've been fair. But I think I should be able to count on a little _loyalty_." He stroked his cigar absently and kept his cold glare on Finn.

"I'm — I'm loyal," Finn said. "You don't have to worry that I'll — you can trust me. You can . . . can _count_ on that." He swallowed thickly.

Karofsky sneered. "Oh, but, see now, you're starting to make me think I _can't_ count on nothing from you. And I don't like when I can't count on my people, Finn." He leaned forward as a menacing look grew in his gaze. "Do you understand me? If I can't count on you, Finn, we have a problem." He paused, raising his eyebrows and leaning closer still. "_Do_ we have a problem, Finn?"

Finn wanted to say no, say there wasn't a problem at all, because Finn wasn't one Karofsky's _people_. But he was, wasn't he?

"No," Finn said, his hands curling into fists. "You can count on me."

"Can I?"' Karofsky smiled slickly, leaning back in his chair and pulling a Zippo from an inner pocket of his jacket. He lit his cigar, took a draw, and levelled Finn with a kind of lazy gaze. He seemed triumphant once more, as if satisfied that he had backed Finn into a corner. And he had, hadn't he? "Well, I just might need some proof."

Proof? "How's that?" Finn asked hesitantly, his stomach knotting.

"I think we've got a stool pigeon 'round McKinley's," Karofsky said. "I see coppers everywhere I go these days. Somebody's snitching."

"It's not me!" Finn protested. He might not be a genius, but he knew not to try _that_.

Karofsky chuckled. "I didn't say it was. Nah, I got another suspicion — ol' Will."

"Schue?" Finn said, a little taken aback. "Will Schuester?"

"Fellow never much liked that I bought his place back in '26. But if he thinks he can get it back by talking to coppers about me," Karofsky said, "he's got another think coming."

"What's that got to do with me?" Finn asked, confused now on top of everything else. He felt bad for Will, he did, but the man could handle himself, and there wasn't much Finn could do for him even if he tried.

Karofsky propped his feet back up on the table. "You're gonna be the one to give him that think."

Finn didn't say anything, and slowly Karofsky smiled as he puffed on his cigar. "How's that sound?" he asked. "You have a talk with Will tonight, and you and I won't have a problem no more. See how fair I can be?" His smile became a grin.

"Okay," Finn said. "I'll talk to him. Sound him out." He nodded. That wasn't so bad.

"Now," Karofsky went on, "let's be sure we understand one another, Mr. Hudson." He paused, and his next words came out in a low, significant drawl. "I don't wanna see that man walk for a _week_ after your _talk_ with him."

Finn tensed, panicked, his chest tightening. "I don't — he trusts me," Finn said, his words rushing out. "Will does, I mean. He'll talk to me. There's not a reason to —"

"I don't know if I believe that," Karofsky interrupted. "Why should I trust you? Hell, ain't that why we're here now? You want me to trust you, don't you, Finn? Here's your chance. It should be no skin off your nose. You're a boxer, aren't you?"

"I'm a boxer," Finn said, a cocktail of anger and anxiety brewing inside him, "not a brawler."

Karofsky couldn't honestly expect this of him, could he?

"You are now," Karofsky said calmly.

"Mr. Karofsky —" Finn took a deep breath. He thought of Rachel. "You can trust me. I'm not a snitch, and I'm not gonna spill stories. I fight when and where and who you want, and I hand over most of that scratch to you. I help clean up messes, and I helped — I've helped." He steeled himself. "But I'm _not_ a trigger man."

"I'm not asking you to _kill_ anybody," Karofsky said, and his eyes narrowed in a challenge. "And I saw you in the club last night, so I know you aren't some kind of _fag_ that can't even pop a guy. "

"I'm not — St. James had it coming — look, Schuester hasn't done anything!" Finn exclaimed, panicked. And when Karofsky only stared at him calmly, Finn spat furiously, refusing to back down, "I'm not gonna rough him up for nothing, no matter what you want."

Karofsky stubbed out his cigar, his fist nearly pounding the table with the motion, his eyes flashing dangerously. "It's all Jake that you've found yourself some painted looker to give you some guts," he said coldly. "But don't make a mistake — you're still a fucking palooka that wouldn't have _nothing_ if I weren't looking after you, got me? So you do what I want, Hudson. You _always_ do what I want, or we have a problem, and you don't _want_ a fucking problem."

Finn didn't say anything. Karofsky didn't need him to.

"I'm only gonna say this once," Karofsky snarled. "You have a talk with Schuester, or I might have to look elsewhere for a fellow to help me out. And if I do, and that man finds out Schuester ain't responsible, well, he might have to talk to someone else. Say, some canary that starts coming by my club 'round the same time the coppers start keeping an eye on me.

"You got me?" he demanded. "You talk to Schuester, or I'll have somebody _talk_ to your new sweetheart. Maybe Turner, huh?" He offered Finn a feral grin. "He's always liked tight little girls."

Finn could barely breathe. "Rachel's never — she's not tied up in anything at all." If Karofsky, if Turner, if _anybody_ went _near_ Rachel, he'd —

"Let's keep it that way," Karofsky said coldly. "How's that sound?" He paused. "Such a pretty little thing — be a right _shame_ if she —"

"Fine," Finn interrupted. "If nobody goes near Rachel —" His voice rose of its own accord.

"You talk to him _real_ good," Karofsky said slowly, "and nobody'll touch your girl. You can _count_ on that." His words hung in the air, and he stared hard at Finn, waiting.

Finn nodded. And Karofsky smiled, and Finn stood, his stomach churning. "I'm gonna go."

"What? You don't wanna stay for a drink?" The jerk _chuckled_, then.

"Not really," Finn said.

Karofsky only grinned. "Let me know how it goes, then."

Finn nodded jerkily and turned on his heel. His pace quickened as he strode through the entranceway, and then to the fire escape. And he took a gasping breath he hadn't known he'd held as his hands fisted around the railing. What had he just agreed to?

But Karofsky had threatened _Rachel_.

Still rattled, Finn started down the stairs, nearly running, only to find himself leaning against the back of McKinley's. He wanted to punch someone or something or — he nearly slammed his fist into the bricks. He scrubbed a hand over his face. What was he supposed to do?

Come by the club, ask Will to come outside for a minute, and then — and then beat him up behind the club as he shouted at him not to snitch, while Rachel sat inside talking with Sam and Kurt and drinking Orange Blossoms? Will hadn't _done_ anything.

Puck would shrug and say that didn't matter. _It happens_, he'd say. Finn could ask Puck to do it.

But then Karofsky would be bent, and Will would still be messed up for nothing, and. . . .

Finn took a deep breath. He had to figure this out. And he had to see Rachel.

He started back to his apartment. He couldn't think straight, and his mind jumped from anxious to angry to anxious again with each step he took. Maybe — maybe Karofsky only wanted to see a black eye and a little blood on Will's shirt, and that'd be enough. Maybe Finn could land a few punches, and that'd be that. Karofsky didn't want Finn to bump off Will.

And Finn had done dirty work for Karofsky before.

For _years_, Finn went out, night after night, to get bootlegged liquor for Karofsky and the club. He had passed jack back and forth with beady-eyed guys who smelt like the rotgut they sold him. And he had blocked doorways before, and he had watched on as _Puck_ roughed boys up, and he had taken care of bodies. And he'd —

But _Will _—

But _Rachel _—

He took the stairs of his apartment building two at a time. He wanted to go back to sleep, to start the day over, to make that whole damn conversation go another way. _No. _He _wanted_ to have a fucking_ talk_ with Karofsky. _That_ was what he wanted.

He paused at the door of the apartment as his anger gave way to anxiety again. How did he tell Rachel about all of this? What would she think? Would she have an answer? Would it be better _not_ to tell her any of this?

He had to tell her. He had to. Because he had to make a decision, he had to figure this all out, he had to — _they_ had to make a plan. But, no, this wasn't really her problem, was it? He shouldn't let her become mixed up in all of this.

He could hear her protests even now, could hear her shout that she loves him and she chose this and she wants to help him. She'd won him over with those arguments before. But he couldn't help that his mind always returned to one place: to how messed up everything was, to how messed up it would probably always be, and to how she deserved so much _better_ than a messed up life with him.

Maybe he shouldn't tell her. Maybe he could take care of it himself. He could protect her from all this. Puck would agree. Finn should take care of Rachel, should keep her happily sipping Orange Blossoms while he did what he had to do to make sure nobody touched her.

But she would _hate_ him for that.

He pushed open the door. "Rach?"

He found her in the bedroom — she'd gone back to bed, apparently, wearing an old shirt of his, curled up in a little ball with one hand tucked under her chin. He found out last night that she snored, these cute, adorable breathy snores, and he stood there for a minute and listened to the sound now, and he stared at her with her hair all messy and her legs twisted in the sheets.

He smiled a little, despite everything.

He had to protect her, but he couldn't let her down, either.

He couldn't lie to her, or . . . or do something that would make her suffer for all that trust and — and all that _love_ that she'd so willingly handed over to him.

And he knew suddenly that if she weren't here, if she had never come to McKinley's, he would have still ended up backed into corner by Karofsky. And he would have worried, protested, tried to find another way, but he would have decided to go ahead and do what Karofsky wanted, because that was easier. It would still be easy. It would be _so _easy — Puck had done it, and Sam, too. But Finn couldn't give in now that he had Rachel.

She had faith in him, trusted him and loved him, and he wouldn't lose that.

He'd done wrong before, but small, sweet, and spirited, she was his _redemption._

If he stayed with her, if he came out and told her everything, she could help him. He would protect her from Karofsky, and she would protect _him_ from Karofsky. Nodding to himself, he kicked off his shoes, shucked off his trousers and then his shirt, and climbed onto the bed, crawling over to her. He wrapped an arm around her and she snorted a little in her sleep and cuddled closer to him.

He ran a hand over her hair, _through_ her hair, letting his fingers curl in the tangles.

She started a little and then gently nuzzled his chest with her nose. "Hi Finn," she said sleepily, her eyes still closed. "I missed you."

He chuckled a little. "Well, it _was_ a whole hour and a half," he teased.

"It was a very _sad_ hour and a half," she murmured, smacking her lips a little.

"The worst," he agreed.

Some of the playfulness left his voice, then, but he still smiled when, slowly, her eyes flickered open, and she smiled at him accusingly. "You're poking fun at me."

"I'd never," he replied. She tucked a hand between her cheek and the pillow as she rubbed her eyes a little with her other hand, and then she shifted slightly, scooting even closer to him and catching his gaze once more. "It's okay," she told him benevolently. "I'll let it slide this time."

He laughed, then. She grinned at him, and they lay there for a minute. But her smile faded, and her eyes softened, and she spoke softly. "What did Karofsky want?" Concern shone in her eyes, and somehow she'd taken a hold of his hand. For a minute, he watched her toy with his fingers. Hers were so soft and slender and pretty, and they were so unbelievably tiny compared to his.

"He asked me about you, about our relationship," he finally admitted. He looked back at her. "He . . . Rachel, he said he doesn't trust me anymore. Puck warned me about the same thing. He said I'm forgetting what I owe him, and that I need to prove where my loyalty lies."

She frowned a little. "What — what does that mean?"

He shook his head. _Say it_, he told himself. _Come out and say it._

"Is this . . . about me?" she asked quietly, her eyes wide. "Is he questioning you because he wants me to be his — his moll, isn't it? Is that because of me?"

"No," he said. "It's 'cause he's right — I'm _not_ loyal to him. Not enough, anyway. Not like he wants. Not like I probably should be. I guess he's just starting to figure out that . . . that I finally have something, or some_one_, that I _am_ loyal to, and he doesn't like that."

"So it _is_ my fault," she said, sounding almost anguished.

"Hey, no, no," he said, and he cupped her cheek and hoped she could see the sincerity in his stare. "Nothing's your fault. I promise." He kissed the top of her head, letting his eyes close for a moment as he breathed her in. "You're all that's keeping me sane now, really. You're what I need, babe, and I didn't even know it 'till I met you."

When he met her gaze again, she looked at him softly. "Do you really meant that?"

"More than anything," he whispered.

She kissed him. She drew back after only a moment, though, and he saw a kind of unease rising up in her eyes. "What?" he asked gently, his thumb running along a strip of bare skin at her hip.

"We'll find a way to handle all this, Finn. We have to. You can't let Karofsky bury you deeper." She swallowed thickly. "Because . . . because I'd love you still, I would — I couldn't stop loving you now if I tried. But there are some mistakes you can't take back, and they'll haunt you."

"Rachel," he said softly.

She looked almost _scared_. "I don't want that for you," she told him.

And he told her. "He wants me to rough up Will Schuester," he said quickly, his breath catching in his throat as he spoke. Her expression slackened ever-so-slightly in surprise, and he hurried on, gripping her hands tightly. "He said he thinks there's a snitch at McKinley's — he says people have been following him, and he wants me to make sure it isn't Schuester."

"It's — it's not," Rachel said, her voice small.

"I know, but when I tried to say that he . . . Rachel, he said if I didn't make certain Schuester didn't try to cross him, he'd —" He couldn't say it. He never should have started to. Only seconds ago she had worried that she was to blame for his trouble with Karofsky; he couldn't let her think that _any_ of this had to do with her.

"He'd what?" she asked.

"He said it was my chance to prove he could still count on me," Finn said, "and that if I did this one thing, I didn't have to worry that we had a problem. If I did this one thing, he'd leave me be."

"He won't ever leave you be," Rachel murmured, "not really."

"What do I do, then?" His words were desperate. "He wants me to — to _talk_ to Will _tonight_."

"Well, we'll go to the club tonight," she said. "And you'll pull Will aside, and you'll threaten him. Scream a little, get in his face, maybe, like you did with Mr. St. James. And you'll make sure that Karofsky knows you intimidated him, and maybe he'll let this one slide."

"He — he made it pretty clear that . . . that —" He paused. She looked up at him with wide, soft, innocent eyes, and he couldn't talk about something like this with her anymore. She _shouldn't_ have to worry about this, just like he thought. "Yeah, I think that'd work," he said. He smiled weakly.

"If it doesn't, then we'll figure something else out," Rachel said, and she scooted closer, kissed his jaw softly, and tucked her face into his neck. "If all else fails," she murmured, "we'll simply skip town. We can make it in New York, even now." He said nothing. He only wrapped his arms around her.

The day passed slowly after that, and there wasn't any talk of McKinley's or Karofsky. Rachel made breakfast, finally, and she tried to teach him how to make eggs for himself. He managed to burn them all, which she found so funny she cried until she was doubled over and in tears.

They went for a walk at one point, and she baked bread, too, but mostly they stayed in bed.

A little after six, though, they finally had to head to McKinley's. Finn watched silently as Rachel dressed and did up her hair, but when she turned to him and asked if she ought to wear these opal earrings she loved so much — "Do they match my dress, you think?" — he finally said something.

"I don't want you to come tonight," he told her.

She paused. "I have to come tonight," she said hesitantly. "Mr. Karofsky expects me there every night in case he wants me to go on stage."

"He won't need you," Finn insisted. "And I don't want you there — _something_'s going to happen tonight, I know that much, and I don't want you there for that." She had to understand this.

She came over to him slowly, and she took his hands. "That's all the more reason for me to be there," she said softly

"Rachel —"

"I want to be there _for_ you," she said.

"I want you to be _here_ for me," he replied.

They stared at each other. Should he tell her what Karofsky had threatened? _No._ But — "Rachel," he whined.

And then she smiled, as if she felt she had won. "I need to be there," she said, "because I need to remind you that no matter what Karofsky says or does or expects, you, Finn Hudson, are a far better person than he or anyone in that club could ever possibly be, and I love you so much." She leaned up on her tiptoes and kissed him. "And I know nothing terrible will happen to me there, because you'll protect me."

She had won. How did she always win?

"But if something starts to happen, and I tell you to leave —" he said.

"I'll leave," she agreed, placating. He glared at her, but when she only smiled, he gave up. A few minutes later, she swung their hands between them as they started towards McKinley's. He grew uneasier with a step; he never really did decide what to do. He could try what Rachel suggested, could try merely to intimidate Will, maybe pop him once or twice, and see what Karofsky did.

But what if Karofsky decided to teach Finn a lesson and go after Rachel?

Finn would protect Rachel, though, he would. And he'd tell Sam what had happened, and Sam would help Finn. He nodded to himself. Rachel squeezed his hand, and he glanced at her. She smiled encouragingly. "It'll be okay," she murmured.

He only kissed the top of her head, and they walked the last two blocks in silence.

McKinley's was already crowded and smoky when they arrived. Karofsky's favourite Jazz band played on stage, and Sam handed an Orange Blossom to Rachel even as she sat down and smiled at him. Kurt greeted them with a lazy wave of his hand, but he kept his nose in his notebook. Finn looked around and took count: no St. James, Mercedes by a table in the front, Artie and Brittany in one corner, Karofsky at his table with a handful of people, including Will Schuester.

Finn swallowed hard.

He glanced at Sam, and Sam stared back. He already knew, didn't he? Everybody probably knew at this point. Finn wrapped an arm securely around Rachel's back and took the drink that Sam slid him. They had dinner, and Rachel chatted idly with Kurt and with Sam and with a man named Brad who looked annoyed at her conversation but who never came out and said as much.

Finn only waited.

And at half past nine, Puck caught Finn's eye, and he nodded at Karofsky's table. Finn wanted to pretend he didn't notice, but then Rachel said quietly, "I think Mr. Puckerman wants to speak with us." Apparently, she had been as on edge and at the ready as Finn.

"No," Finn said sourly, "Karofsky wants to speak with me. That's what that is."

"Oh," Rachel said, looking up at him. Worry flared in her eyes. "I'll wait here?"

He nodded and kissed her quickly. But as Finn stood and started towards Karofsky's table, Puck shook his head and his eyes flew to Rachel and back to Finn. _Fuck_. Finn glowered, but Puck only shrugged, and somebody danced in between them. Finn turned back to Rachel.

"Come with me," he said. "I think he wants you to come over, too."

He _knew_ she shouldn't have come. Why would Karofsky possibly want Rachel to come sit with them? This couldn't be good.

"Right," she said, nodding a little. She took his hand, and he led her across the club, weaving between tables to where Karofsky sat with Turner, Puck, Schuester, a man Finn might have met once or twice, and, to Finn's surprise, Santana.

"Well," Turner said to Puck, "if I have anything to say about it, that fellow will leave this city in a Chicago overcoat or not at all." Puck nodded and tapped his glass to Turner's in agreement.

"What's a Chicago overcoat?" Rachel asked brightly. "Are you interested in fashion, Mr. Puckerman?"

Puck laughed. "Doll, you really are from nowhere, aren't you?" he said. "Lemme guess — you don't know what a Chicago typewriter is either, do you?"

"No, actually," she said, frowning a little. "May we sit?"

Puck shrugged, and Karofsky said, "Please." Finn pulled back a seat for Rachel, and Santana greeted him lazily. "Good evening, Mr. Hudson."

"Ms. Lopez," he said. He nodded at Will and at Puck, and Rachel smiled winningly at the whole table as she sat and put her hands delicately in her lap.

"And it's Ms. Brown, isn't it?" Santana asked her.

"Ms. Berry, actually," Rachel corrected coolly before she turned to the others, smiling and greeting each. "Hello Mr. Schuester," she said. "And Mr. Puckerman. And you're Mr. Turner, right? It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Rachel Berry."

Turner only nodded in acknowledgement, and Finn sat beside Rachel, already more than prepared to stand up and leave with her again. Did Karofsky simply mean to torture Finn and Rachel? Is that what this was? Finn glanced at Will and looked away quickly. Maybe Karofsky had changed his mind?

"Hello Mr. Karofsky," Rachel said, only the slightest trace of hesitance in her voice.

"Ms. Berry," Karofsky said, smiling slightly. "You want something to drink?"

"Oh, I'm fine, thank you."

No one said anything.

"I liked your song about sinners," Puck finally told Rachel, breaking the silence. He grinned. "You a sinner, Ms. Berry?"

Finn didn't even have the chance to glare at Puck before Karofsky said mildly, "That always how you talk to a lady, Puck?" Finn's hands curled into fists, then, even as Rachel offered Karofsky a grateful smile. Moments later, however, her hand covered Finn's under the table.

"Sorry, boss," Puck said, leaning back in his seat and sipping at his whiskey.

"How was your night off, Ms. Berry?" Will asked kindly.

"Oh, it was lovely," Rachel said. "Mr. Hudson took me to see _It Happened One Night._ I absolutely adored the entire film. It was _very_ romantic. And Clark Gable is so funny. He's really a sensational actor, too, I think." She smiled, gushing as she went on to try to recreate her favourite scene, complete with voices and all.

Finn laughed a little, until he realised that Karofsky laughed, too, and then Finn only wanted to hit someone, preferably Karofsky. Turner started to talk softly with the stranger who hadn't been introduced, Will fidgeted and drank what must have been his third or fourth scotch, and Puck leaned towards Finn.

"He told me he expects you to have a talk with Schue tonight," Puck murmured, and there was a kind of question in his voice. Finn said nothing. Puck sighed. "Look, it won't be so bad. Will won't hold it against you."

"What does he expect me to do, anyway?" Finn asked. "Drag Will outside?"

"Don't be a dip, Finn," Puck said. "You know how to play this game. Hell, Karofsky's made it easy for you." He pulled back as Santana laughed loudly and drew all the attention to herself and Turner. Finn focused on the feel of Rachel's hand around his. He caught her eye at one point, and she smiled slightly.

Mercedes came around with more drinks, and Karofsky teased Rachel when she insisted she only wanted a glass of water. "What's that drink you like?" Puck asked. "Orange something or other. Orange Blossom." He looked at Mercedes. "Bring her an Orange Blossom."

"Oh, I really shouldn't —"

"It's on me," Karofsky offered, winking.

Finn grit his teeth so hard he thought he might break his jaw.

A few hours later, Karofsky asked Rachel if she wanted a ride home. "It's late, muffin. You want me to have Turner bring the Buick around?"

No. _No. _

"That's very sweet, Mr. Karofsky," Rachel said, "but Mr. Hudson always walks me home."

"I'm afraid Mr. Hudson has some business with me tonight," Karofsky said apologetically. He nodded at Turner. "Bring the Buick around." He smiled at Rachel. "It's no trouble. I'll give you a ride. My Friday night singer deserves the best, right?"

Rachel tried to protest again, but Karofsky wouldn't listen.

Rachel held Finn's hand tightly, her nails biting into his skin, and he wanted to help her, wanted to protest. He even abruptly offered to walk Rachel home and then return to the club, but Karofsky waved him off. "Don't be crazy, Hudson," he said.

Ten minutes later, Karofsky stood, and he offered his arm to Rachel. She leaned over and kissed Finn's cheek. "It'll be okay," she whispered. He watched her leave with Karofsky.

"Don't worry, Finn," Will said, smiling wearily. "I'm sure Ms. Berry will be fine."

Finn couldn't look at him. He didn't. He stood and returned to the bar, and Sam handed him a drink. "I have to do it," Finn muttered, his hand shaking a little. Karofsky wouldn't hurt Rachel tonight. He wouldn't. But he had proven that he _could_. And Finn knew he wouldn't hesitate if he thought Finn _deserved_ — "He'll hurt her if I don't," he said.

"Then do it," Sam said softly.

Finn said nothing. He drank another whiskey. He smoked a cigarette.

Karofsky and Turner returned. Turner nodded at him as they passed the bar and returned to their table. If he wanted Finn to return to the table, too, then _too fucking bad_. Puck came over a few minutes later. "They dropped her off, fine and dandy," Puck told him.

"Would they really —?" Finn asked, cutting himself off before he could actually say the words _hurt her_. "Do you think I have to do this?"

"You wanna take care of your girl, don't you?" Puck said, as if it were that simple.

Finn only nodded. If Rachel were here, she would tell him that she didn't need him to do this. But she didn't understand. She spoke of mistakes that he couldn't take back, but he had already made those mistakes, and he wouldn't let _this_ be a mistake, wouldn't let Karofsky usher her into a car and take her somewhere and —

Slowly, the club emptied.

Artie left, waving half-heartedly to Finn as he went. Will started to clean up. Kurt took a back booth, almost out of sight. Sam started wiping down the bar. A few of the waitresses left. Santana came back to the bar and mercifully said nothing, even as she smoked and watched Finn with dark, knowing eyes. And then Will disappeared into the kitchen.

Finn followed.

Tina smiled at him. "Will go outside with the trash?" he asked her. She nodded.

He took the back door out and found himself right by the fire escape he had climbed that morning. "Schue," he called.

Will looked over at him. "Hello, Finn," he said, not glancing up. "If Karofsky wants me, tell him it'll be a moment. I have to take out the trash."

"It's not that," Finn said. His voice must have given him away, because Will looked up.

"What's the matter?" Will asked. "What's Karofsky steamed up over now? If this is about that St. James fellow, I told him not to come around her again, like Karofsky asked —"

"It's not about that," Finn said. He paused. "He thinks you've been talking to coppers, Will."

"What?" Will's eyes went wide. He ran a hand over his hair. "I haven't! I might not have much, Finn, but I've still got my head. I'm not about to try to snitch on _Karofsky_. I'd get in as much trouble with the coppers as he would!"

"Not if you were the pigeon," Finn said.

Will had begun to panic. "What do you think I should do? How can I make him believe me? You _know_ I wouldn't do something like that, Finn — you _know_ I wouldn't! How do I make Karofsky believe me?"

_Oh, God._ Will didn't realise.

Finn walked forward, put a hand on Will's shoulder. "I'm sorry," he murmured. He slammed his fist into Will's stomach, and Will doubled over. "Swear to me, Will," he said. "Swear you haven't been spilling to the cops."

"I haven't!" Will said. "Finn, you know —"

Finn popped him, and Will clutched his face, stumbling back against the wall. Blood dripped down to his shirt, and Finn's breath caught. He stepped back. He couldn't do this. He _couldn't_. The back door pushed open, and Karofsky walked out, a cigar hanging out of his mouth and Puck and Turner on either side of him.

"He talked yet?" he asked Finn calmly.

"Mr. Karofsky —!" Will cried.

Puck stepped forward, his face menacing, and Will cowered slightly, but Karofsky's hand shot out, stopping Puck. Karofsky looked at Finn, raising his eyebrows. "You gonna let him talk to me like that?"

"I swear to you," Will tried again, his eyes darting from Karofsky to Finn to Puck to Karofsky again. "I haven't said a _word_ to anybody at _all _—"

"Somebody has," Finn said. But he couldn't — what the_ fuck_ had he gotten himself in to?

"Any suggestions?" Karofsky growled, but his eyes were on Finn.

"That man — St. James —!"

"He ain't been around long enough," Karofsky said coldly.

"Or — or — Azimio! It had to be Azimio! He couldn't be trusted and —"

"He's already been gone long enough," Karofsky interrupted.

"How about the new Friday night singer?" Turner suggested. Finn knew what they were doing, he did, but his breath still started to come in short bursts as alarm flooded him, and then Will start to nod eagerly, crowing.

"I — sure! Yes! She seems like the type —!"

"Why don't we bring her in for a talk, then?" Karofsky said. "We know right where to find her, don't we?" Turner started to turn back to the building.

And Finn lunged forward.

Will's nose cracked under Finn's fist, and the older man whimpered and collapsed to the ground, curling him around himself. Finn yanked him up by his shirt. "It's not Rachel," Finn breathed. "It's you. You've been talking to them, 'cause you want your club back."

"No — I'd never —!"

Finn punched him again, and then a fourth time, and then a fifth. He had to think of it like a match, like a fair fight, like _Will_ had threatened Rachel. He couldn't pause and_ really_ think about it. He had to do this. He _had_ to.

"That what you do every morning?" Karofsky asked Will. "Is that why you're never around? You down lighting up with the boys at the station, talking about that stupid old Karofsky?"

Will shook his head quickly, Finn kicked him in the stomach, and Will curled around his stomach, groaning and _crying. _Again, Finn hauled Will to his feet, and he made him face Karofsky. He _did_ know how this game worked. He'd simply never wanted to play before.

"I really don't believe you," Karofsky said. "Now, if you admit it, it'll be easier on you. After all, I'm a fair man."

"I haven't —!"

Finn couldn't punch him again.

"You know, I've grown a little tired of this," Karofsky said.

And Puck pulled out a gun.

They were going to _kill_ Will. Had that been the plan all along? No. Finn couldn't be a part of this. He'd started it, and he'd finished it. He grabbed Will by the shoulder. "Admit it, Will, just come out with it," he muttered, and he gutted Will; he hit his stomach, he hit his face, he went for his side, again and again and again.

Will fell to the ground, and Finn reached down to grab him, to yank him up again, but he stopped suddenly, panting, when he realised that Will's eyes were closed, his face slack.

He'd fallen unconscious.

Finn had _beat_ him unconscious.

Shaking slightly, the world coming back into focus, Finn looked over and his eyes found Karofsky's immediately. "Attaboy," Karofsky said, nodding and puffing on his cigar. Puck tucked his gun back into his pocket, and he smiled grimly at Finn.

Finn's stomach turned. He stumbled backwards. Karofsky didn't seem to notice or to care. He murmured something to Turner and jerked his head at Will and then at Puck, who hauled a motionless Will up. Finn walked away, his steps unsure. He couldn't see straight. A block from McKinley's, he keeled over, and on his hands and knees he threw up, heaving until there was nothing left. He pushed himself to his feet. What had he done? How had that happened?

_What had he done_?

He had wanted to protect Rachel, and then even to protect Will, because Puck had a _gun_, but Finn still couldn't breathe properly. _Oh, God._ What if he had killed Will? What if he had beaten Will to _death_? And Will hadn't done anything! Turner had pushed him to accuse Rachel, and Finn had methodically beat Will unconscious for it.

He didn't know how he made it home, but he did.

He went straight for the bathroom, and he stripped off his shirt, and he tried to wash off the blood. How did it get everywhere? On his hands, on his arms, on his _face_? He splashed water over himself, shaking a little, unable to forget the look on Will's face, the pleading protests he made, and all the blood — so much blood. He boxed, and he had still never seen so much _blood._

And he'd beaten Will _unconscious._

"Finn?" she asked, her voice hesitant.

Still gripping the sink, he turned slightly, and he could see Rachel across the apartment, standing in the doorway of the bedroom and wearing her pale pink ruffled nightgown. He looked back at the sink. He couldn't face her right now. He couldn't even scrub off all the blood, and he couldn't let her see, he couldn't tell her, he couldn't —

"Go back to bed, Rach," he murmured.

"Come back with me," she said gently.

He refused to face her again, but he knew she didn't move, that she stood there, and she waited, and guilt started to overtake him until he could barely breathe. How could there have been _so much blood_? Hands shaking, he grabbed a towel, dried off his face, and pulled his trousers off — they were stained with blood. He didn't want her to see. He didn't want her to know. He didn't want her to have any _idea_.

He left the bathroom, flipping the light off, and then he met her anxious gaze, and his eyes burned.

"What happened?" she gasped.

"Rachel," he whispered. "I couldn't . . . I couldn't find a way not to. . . ."

She stared, and he didn't know what to do, what to say, and he waited for the terror to overtake her expression, as it had overtaken every bone in his own body. "Oh, Finn," she said softly, and she held hand out her arms. But he couldn't — she didn't understand — she didn't realise — he — no — so much blood _everywhere _— and _he _had done it, let Karofsky stand there and watch as he — _unconscious _— no —

He started to shake with the tears he couldn't suppress, and she came to him, then, wrapping her arms around him even as he sank into her, nearly falling to the ground. He pressed his face into her neck, sobs wracking his body, and he anchored himself to her, clutching her, crying to her, letting her soft murmurs of "darling, Finn, oh, shh, darling . . ." wash over him.

Her hands ran through his hair, and she rocked him a little, and then she led him back to the bedroom.

She peppered his face in kisses, and she pulled her night gown up and over her head, and she lay back on the bed, opening her arms to him once more, her eyes soft and sweet, as if he weren't the villain in the story, as if she loved him still. He shook a little as he climbed on top her, as she cradled him between her legs, and he buried his face in her neck and then buried himself inside her, trying to erase the sight and the sound and the _blood_.

He gripped the sheet, and he dove into her, again and again, until she was all he knew and felt and ever wanted to know or feel.

He collapsed on top of her, still crying, and she kissed lightly at his tears, holding him against her, holding him on top of her. He rolled away, but he didn't want to let her go, didn't want to be away from her. And she followed his movements, so that he lay on his side and she lay on hers, pressed against him, one leg curled over his hip, the other tangled between his.

She stroked his back, and they said nothing, and his mouth found her breast, and he suckled a little.

He cried into her damp skin until he fell asleep.

And when he jerked awake a few hours later, she still lay beside him, and comfort still rested in arms she held open to him yet again.

**tbc**

a/n: okay, as I had warned, a lot happened in this chapter. I hope it wasn't too much for you to take in one go, though! There are only two chapters and an epilogue after this. St. James does come back, but as some of you might have guessed, Karofsky remains the villain of the story. Anyway, I should warn you: the next chapter might take longer than a week. In the next day or two, I'm going to try to post a one-shot I've been working on, and then I'm going on self-imposed fanfiction exile. No reading, no writing, and my roommate has been instructed to slap me if she sees me making what she calls my "fanfiction face." It won't be for long, but there are a handful of things that I _need_ to get done before I can let fanfiction be my bestie again.

Please review?


	9. Chapter 9

_a/n: finally I have an update for you! The next (and final!) chapter, and the epilogue (which takes place eleven year later), should come much sooner. I find Finn on the show to be something of a douche right now, and I know people disagree and think he's just messed up and all, and I guess I can agree to a point, but I still can't much swallow what the writers are throwing at us._

_All my friends kind of hate Finn right now, and I can't blame them - taken alone w/out fanfiction that so wonderfully explains everything Finn and Rachel do, the show makes both look bad, imo. Anyway, rant over, my point is that focusing on this story keeps my Finchel heart happy, so I'm excited to see it all come together, and I hope it doesn't disappoint!_

* * *

"You're still here."

She paused and glanced over at him, standing in the doorway of the bedroom, his face pale and tired. She wished he had slept in longer. He needed more sleep. She smiled softly, though. "Where else would I be?" she asked. He didn't say anything. "I did go to the market this morning," she went on, "but you were sound asleep." Sill, he said nothing.

"They had a dozen eggs for only _sixteen_ cents," she adding, and she smiled again.

He only nodded.

She bit her lip. "Sit down," she said. "I made pancakes, too.

He didn't move. "You didn't have to do all this," he said. "I can cook, too. Not like you, but. . . ." He shrugged a little. "And I can do my own wash." She followed his gaze as his eyes darted to the clothesline she had run through the room. She had tidied up the bathroom this morning, too, and cleaned his clothing from last night. It hadn't taken long at all, really.

"I don't mind." She paused. "I tend to wake up early," she said, "and I need something to do, don't I? I really don't mind, honest." But he kept his gaze on the floor, and she knew why. She turned back to the stove, and she dished eggs out onto a plate for him. "Come on," she said. "Sit down. Your eggs will go cold. There's nothing worse than cold eggs."

He finally sat, fiddling with a cigarette as she placed a plate down in front of him. "You really shouldn't smoke," she told him. "It's very bad for your voice." He still didn't look at her. "But, you know, I suppose one now and again won't hurt. Here!" She hurried over to the counter, where she'd placed the few dollars and the Zippo she'd found in his trousers.

She brought the Zippo over to him, and she sat herself in his lap, taking the cigarette from his hands and holding it to his lips before light the tip for him. He didn't say anything, but his hand hesitantly came to rest on her waist, holding her to him. She kissed his cheek.

She wanted to ask him about last night.

She knew what had happened, in a way, but she didn't _really_ know. And she had never seen him like that before. She never wanted to see him like that again. He had been so upset, so confused, so _scared._ What had happened? And the blood splattered in the bathroom sink, and the blood on his shirt, and on his trousers, she knew that must belong to Will, but . . .?

He smoked, and he ate a little, and he let her toy with the hair at the nape of his neck. But he said nothing. After a few minutes, she couldn't help herself. "Are you going to tell me what happened?" she said quietly. He finally glanced at her. She tried not to look anxious, but she wasn't sure she had much success.

"You can't guess?" he said, his voice low. He stubbed out his cigarette. He wouldn't look at her.

"You roughed up Will," she murmured, and she felt his arm tighten around her.

"I don't even know how," he whispered. "I didn't want to. I didn't. I wasn't going to. But then he drove you home, and he . . . he told me — that afternoon, Rachel, he told me that if I didn't talk to Will, somebody would _talk_ to you. And I . . . I didn't know what to do."

Karofsky had threatened to hurt her? He had used Rachel to manipulate Finn?

Finn looked at her, his eyes wide and desperate, a plea overtaking his words as he went on, as he described everything, as he slowly, repeatedly breaking off and starting up again, he told her everything. "I didn't . . . I couldn't let them hurt you," he finished, "but I didn't know how _not_ to without . . . I didn't know what to do. I just . . . I just didn't."

It was quiet.

And, slowly, she nodded. "I wouldn't have known what to do either," she said. She ran a hand over his hair. He didn't look like he believed her, but she held his gaze. He had to know that she didn't think less of him for this, that she didn't intend to abandon him now.

"You're not mad, then?" he asked softly, like a little boy.

"At Karofsky?" she said. "I'm mad at a hornet. Worse even. I don't even have the words!" She paused. "But at you? No. I'm not. I promise." She kissed his cheek again, and he relaxed a little against her. "But you can't," she went on gently, "you can't let him manipulate you again, Finn. You're better than that, and he'll never stop his demands if you don't find a way to stop it all now."

"I know," he murmured. "But I just don't . . . I don't know _how_ to stop any of it."

She didn't know either. She thought of Kurt.

"You really do love me, don't you?" he asked, a kind of surprise to his voice.

"I do," she said. "So much." She cupped his face and ran her thumb gently over his cheek. "Do you doubt that?"

"I — no," he said, "but I just . . . I can't lose you now. I can't. What if I — what if I _killed_ him, Rachel? What if I killed Will?"

"You didn't," she assured.

"You don't know —"

"Of course I do," she said. She firmly believed Finn could never beat someone to death. He hadn't. "And you won't lose me," she told him. She let her voice soften a little. "You couldn't if you tried. It's you and me for good, now. Right?"

He nodded a little. "But . . . but is this it, Rachel? Is this our life?" He held up his hands, his knuckles bruised and raw. "I've fucked up my hands before, I have, but not like this. Not this way. I've never . . . is this our life now?"

"No," she said, and she took his hand and kissed his knuckles as lightly as she could. "It's not. This is only the dark before the dawn, right? We'll figure this out. We will." Again, she kissed his knuckles, and then she stood. "Eat," she said. "I'll fetch some bandages for your hands."

"You don't need to —"

"Let me," she interrupted, insistent.

Hesitantly, he nodded, and he picked up his fork. But he paused. "Rachel? I love you, too."

She smiled softly. "I know."

He finished breakfast, and he helped her clean up before she bandaged his hands. She told him about last night, about the terribly uncomfortably ride from Karofsky's to his apartment, and the way Turner had leered at her when she said that she lived with Finn. Finn's jaw locked as she spoke, and she hastily added that he hadn't touched her, and neither had Karofsky.

"All in all, I suppose it wasn't _so_ terrible," she said. "It's not a long drive, after all. But I was so worried about you. And it got so late, I even asked your landlord if I could use his phone."

"My landlord has a phone?" Finn asked. "And, wait, you've met Figgins?"

"I met him last night," Rachel said, nodding. "He's a rather silly man, I think, but I made him some tea, and we discussed Jesus Christ, and he let me use his phone. I called Mercedes. She didn't pick up, of course, because she hadn't come home yet, and I only grew more worried."

Finn frowned, guilt rising once more in his eyes, but she didn't give him the chance to say anything. He didn't have to feel guilty, not even a little. "Of course," Rachel said, "you came home half an hour or so after that." She smiled quickly and changed the subject. "What are you doing today, then?" she asked.

"Today?" he said. "I guess . . . I guess I need to swing by the gym. I don't know when my next fight is, but I have to stay in shape. And Bieste'll have my hide if I stay away for much longer."

She nodded. "I can go see Mercedes, then," she said. "I actually . . . I wanted to talk to her about something. It's nice to have a girl to talk to about things, about anything, really. I've never had a close girl friend before."

And she needed to ask Mercedes about Kurt, there was that, too. But Rachel wouldn't tell Finn that, not yet, not before she knew how to handle all of this, not when he was still so visibly shake and upset over all this.

Finn nodded. "Mercedes is good people," he said. She agreed, and she asked him what he knew about Mercedes and Sam. He didn't know much, but she finally managed to wrangle a small laugh out of him when she went on and on about how romantic their secret love seemed.

She felt rather proud of herself, in fact.

Still, as he walked her to Mercedes's, she could nearly _see_ the despairing thoughts creeping to the forefront of his mind. She squeezed his hand, trying to draw even a small smile from him. When they reached Mercedes's apartment, he offered to go up with her.

"I'll be fine," she said. "And I'll see you tonight."

"But don't come before seven," he said. "I'll be there by seven."

She almost protested, but she knew he needed this one. "Okay," she said. "I'll see you at seven."

She kissed him, and she watched him leave, then, his hands shoved in his pockets. She almost wanted to run after him and hug him and _make_ him feel better somehow, someway. But he turned the corner, and she started up the six flights of stairs. Her stomach cramped a little, and she decided she ought to try to exercise more — singers really ought to be fit, after all. On Mercedes's landing, she stopped for a minute to compose herself, adjusting her hat and smoothing the skirt of her dress, before she knocked.

Mercedes opened the door hesitantly, but smiled when she saw Rachel. "Hey there, dolly," she said, stepping back to let Rachel in. "Did I know you were coming by?"

"No," Rachel told her. "But I wanted to talk about —" She faltered when she saw Quinn, wearing a cheap, green cotton dress, seated at the table. Hesitantly, Rachel smiled at her. Quinn only stared back, her face blank, and Rachel uncomfortably focused on Mercedes again. "Finn went to the gym," she said. "I thought maybe you and I could talk some. You don't mind, do you?"

"Of course not," Mercedes dismissed. "I never mind company."

But Rachel's eyes darted to Quinn, who didn't look at her but who told her in a deadened voice, "nice hat." Rachel touched her hat uncertainty. Did Quinn mean that sincerely? This had always been a favourite of Rachel's, and Finn told her when they left that he liked it even better than her bluebird hat.

"Um, thank you, I think," Rachel said, and she glanced at Mercedes for a moment. "I made it myself," she said. "There was a store in Lima that sold clothe roses, and I . . . well, anyway, it's one of my favourites." But she didn't move, unsure now. Maybe this wasn't the best time to talk with Mercedes. She wanted to get along with Quinn, she really did, but she wasn't so sure Quinn wanted to get along with her.

And she didn't want to let _Quinn_ in on everything.

Mercedes nodded encouragingly, though. "Sit, sweetheart," she said. "You want some tea?"

"Yes, please," Rachel said, and she took off her hat, and then her sweater, and sat down at the table. Quinn only went on staring lazily off into space. Her hair, usually clean and curled and cute, was in messy disarray now, and fell on her shoulders in wisps. She didn't have any make-up on, either, and she looked pale and drawn.

When had she last left Mercedes's apartment? Had she been here for two weeks?

"How's Finn?" Mercedes asked. "He make it home last night okay?" Rachel thought there might be more to her question. She glanced over at Quinn again, and this time Quinn met Rachel's gaze, her eyes sour, and Rachel looked away quickly.

"He did," Rachel told Mercedes. "He was rather upset, as you can imagine —" She paused to be certain Mercedes understood, and Mercedes nodded. "— but I made sure he got a good night's sleep and had a hearty breakfast."

"Good on you," Mercedes said. She started to say something more, but the teakettle went off.

She went to the stove, and Rachel found that Quinn was suddenly watching her closely. "You're his girl now?" Quinn asked, though there wasn't much of a question to her voice.

"I am," Rachel answered, nodding and trying another smile for Quinn.

Quinn didn't seem to notice. She pulled a cigarette from her pocket and tried to light it with shaking fingers. Rachel almost wanted to offer to help, but she said nothing, and eventually Quinn managed, and she sagged in her seat, blowing out a slow ring of smoke.

Rachel didn't know what to say. She should try something, though, right?

"What?" Quinn snapped.

Shaking her head, Rachel looked quickly at her hands. She should paint her nails. That was the sort of thing ginchy girls did, now, right? They painted their nails bright, fun colours. Quinn used to paint her nails. Rachel risked another glance at Quinn. She didn't have on any polish now, though. She really wasn't herself, was she? Rachel felt bad.

"How's Mr. Puckerman?" she tried.

Quinn looked at her with a kind of invidious shape to her expression. "He's the same as always," she said coldly. "He's a Detroit deadbeat, and he always will be." She glared, as if Rachel would argue. But Rachel said nothing. Quinn closed her eyes as she took another drag, tilting her head back slightly, and Rachel stared once more at her hands.

"You know, if it weren't for Karofsky," Quinn said after a beat, holding her cigarette between her fingers and leveling Rachel with a cold, listless stare, "Finn would have been mine."

Rachel stared. She opened her mouth. Nothing came out. She closed her mouth again. What did she say _now_? She managed half a nod, and a moment later, to her relief, Mercedes set a cup of tea down in front of Rachel and then settled into the seat beside her.

"Now," Mercedes said, smiling at Rachel, "tell me."

"Tell you what?" Rachel asked, frowning.

"We haven't had time to talk yet," Mercedes said, but we've time now, and I'm dying here, dolly. Talk. Tell me about the singer." She spoke as if this were simply good gossip between friends, but Rachel didn't understand.

"The singer?" she repeated. "You mean me?"

Quinn snorted. Rachel pretended not to notice.

"No, not you," Mercedes said, chuckling "I mean that spiv with the greasy hair, the one who had you sing with him, only for Finny to pop him. Name's St. James, I think. Jesse St. James, right?" She shook her head a little. "Now _there_'s a name for you."

"It is a rather showy name," Rachel said, smiling tightly. Why did Mercedes want to talk about Mr. St. James? Had Kurt spoken to her? He had promised, he had _sworn_, that he wouldn't say a word to anybody. But could she really trust him?

"But what's the story?" Mercedes pressed.

Rachel didn't know what to say, but she couldn't let her panic show. She trusted Mercedes, she really did, and she wanted to one day share her whole story with her, but not now, not yet, not with Quinn in the room, not with so much all spiralling out of control around them.

They needed to worry about Karofsky now, not St. James.

"Why did Finny lose his mind on the slick?" Mercedes asked her. She glanced at Quinn. "I told you about that," she said, "remember? Finn marched across the club, grabbed St. James, and gave him a right talking to." She looked almost _proud_ of Finn, but Quinn said nothing.

"It's really nothing," Rachel said carefully. She took a sip of tea. "St. James, he made — he made some _advances_ on me, and when I told Finn, he lost his temper. I told him I was uncomfortable around St. James, even frightened of him, and Finn wanted to protect me." That wasn't really a lie, was it? "And, as much as I despise violence," she went on, "I have to admit that I'm grateful Finn stood up for me, and I think St. James will leave me alone now."

"If he doesn't, I'm sure Finn'll give him a loose tooth or two," Mercedes said. "I'll even volunteer Sam to help out, if you like." She grinned. "We've got to look after our own, right?" Rachel only nodded. This seemed like the perfect moment to ask about Kurt.

And she _had_ to ask about Kurt. That's why she had come over here. Something needed to happen.

Everything that happened last night, what Karofsky put Finn through, that proved it. Something had to be done, and Kurt had an idea, an answer, if Rachel would trust him, would risk everything on his word. Could she?

"What's the matter?" Mercedes asked. She set down her tea. "You didn't come her to talk about St. James. I'm sorry. What's the matter?"

Rachel glanced at Quinn and then away again quickly. "It's nothing," she said.

Mercedes frowned, concerned. "Are you —?"

"She doesn't want to talk in front of me," Quinn said. "She obviously came by to talk about _something_, but she didn't count on me." She stubbed out her cigarette, her gaze mildly condescending. "Isn't that right, _Rachel_?"

"No," Rachel protested, "no, not at all." She sighed. "I'm simply . . . you know what happened last night, what Karofsky made Finn do, right?" she said, and Mercedes murmured softly that she did. Rachel turned to Quinn, then, who quickly snapped that she knew, too.

Rachel nodded. "He was so upset," she went on. "He thought he had _killed_ Will."

"He didn't," Mercedes said gently. "Puck even helped the old man get home. He'll be fine."

"I know," Rachel said, nodding again. "I know. And I told him that, too. But he felt so terrible, so guilty, even though it wasn't really his fault. Karofsky trapped him, told him it was the only way to protect me and to earn Karofsky's trust." She paused, desperation rising up inside her. "Karofsky's entirely to blame, and the worst is yet to come. It won't end here, I know it won't, not unless. . . .

"Karofsky will demand more, and . . . and I don't know how we'll handle that. I don't know what to do, how to stop . . . how to _end_ this all before something worse happens. And I know you said not to worry about what comes next, but I can't help it, Mercedes, I simply can't. We can't live like this — _something_ has to change."

She thought again of Kurt.

And Mercedes started to reply, but Quinn cut her off.

"You think we don't know that?" Quinn asked, her lip curling. "You think we haven't lived in constant fear for _years_?" She sneered at Rachel. "You think we're simply _fine_ with how it all is, and you're the first person to say something needs to change?"

"I — n-no, I —"

"What do you propose we do, anyway?" She shook her head scornfully at Rachel. "Who are you to think you can waltz in here and declare that something has to change, and what? That will _magically_ save us all? Sorry, man hands, it doesn't work that way."

"I'm sorry," Rachel said. "I honestly didn't mean to imply —"

"It's fine," Mercedes said, resting a hand on Rachel's and smiling briefly. "Quinn's been in a bad mood for, oh, the last two years or so, and she doesn't mean to snap at you." She paused. "Isn't that right, Quinn?" She looked at Quinn like a mother at her small child, and after a beat Quinn shrugged, glaring off into space. That seemed to satisfy Mercedes, who turned back to Rachel.

"You're right, Rachel, you are," she said. "And I've wracked my brain time and again for some sort of answer, but I have no idea what could possibly help, short of throwing up our hands and trying to run off in the night." She smiled sadly.

Rachel thought again of Kurt. She could say something now.

But maybe they don't have to risk everything the way Kurt wanted — maybe they _could_ simply run away. Why not? Rachel had thought of it before, sure, but she had dismissed the idea, because if it were that easy — not that it would be easy, of course, but — but what if it really were the best thing any of them could do?

"I'm sorry, dolly," Mercedes said. "I didn't mean to make you feel any worse." She paused. "Let's not think about it," she said. "We need to forget about it all now and then. You want something to eat? I can whip up something real quick like."

Rachel shook her head. "That's really not necessary."

"I'll have something," Quinn said.

"Sure," Mercedes said. "What do you want?"

Quinn shrugged. "I don't care. Anything." She didn't look at Mercedes as she pulled out another cigarette. But Mercedes nodded and stood, squeezing Rachel's shoulder as she left the table. Rachel frowned, and she stared at Quinn until Quinn finally looked back.

"What?" Quinn asked, annoyed.

"You know," Rachel told her, "you're a very unpleasant person."

And to her surprise, Quinn smiled a little. "They're the best sort." She gazed back off into space.

Rachel decided to leave it at that. She stood, taking her teacup to the sink. "Do you need some help?" she asked Mercedes. "I can bake a lovely loaf of banana bread," she offered. "And I read all the tips in _Ladies' Home Journal._"

"Oh, there's no need," Mercedes said, smiling. "And there's no time, either, for nothing fancy. It's nearly four. I need to leave for McKinley's soon." She lowered her voice as she went on. "You can stay here longer, if you like," she murmured, "but Puck told Quinn a few days ago that he'd be by this afternoon. If I can, I always try to give them some privacy."

Rachel nodded. "It's fine," she said. She could certainly do that much for Quinn, and for Puck, too. "I promised Finn I wouldn't stop by the club until seven, when he'd be there, but I can go back to the apartment and wash up a little."

"Sounds good," Mercedes said. "But are you sure — dolly, are you sure that you're okay? Is there something you wanted to talk about, besides, well, how very sad off we all are?" She looked so sincere and kind, then, and Rachel couldn't help herself: she hugged her.

"Ooh," Mercedes murmured, and she patted Rachel's arm a little until Rachel drew back.

Rachel smiled. "I'm fine," she told her. "Or as fine as I can be."

She wouldn't say anything about Kurt, not yet. Besides, she needed to talk with Finn before anything else. Because maybe there _was_ a way to handle this, one nobody seemed to acknowledge seriously.

"Okay," Mercedes said. After a quiet moment or two, she flipped on the radio, spinning the dial slowly until she found Billie Holiday.

"Oh, I love her!" Rachel said. Mercedes grinned, then, and she began to sing. Feeling a little better about everything, Rachel joined in. She thought maybe Quinn would, too, but she never did, not before Rachel left.

* * *

He climbed the stairs quickly.

He promised Quinn he would come by this afternoon, but he didn't know if that would happen today, not if Karofsky had a job for him. Of course, Quinn probably wouldn't care, would she? She didn't seem to care about much at all anymore, least of all him. And when he did stop by to see her, she only glared and hissed at him and told him he had ruined her life.

He couldn't blame her for all that, though.

He _had_ messed everything up for her. But Karofsky didn't treat her right, not really, not like Puck could. Didn't she see that? Maybe she didn't now, not knocked up and penniless, but he'd do right by her, and eventually she'd see. She was some kind of high hat looker with an attitude, and she drove him abso_lut_ely screwy, but the girl had him from the start like no other, and he would take care of her.

He _would_. And he'd take care of his kid, too. He'd prove to her that he could do that much.

He told her once — that same night he knocked her up, actually — about his own mama and daddy. His old man walked out of them, but he came back around for a few weeks at a time now and then over the years, and every time he always managed to drink himself into a rage and then beat Puck's mama. Puck had turned fourteen, waited for the fucker to come around again, and then beaten the man so bad that he left and _stayed_ gone.

"I take care of my own," Puck had told Quinn. She had kissed him.

He'd taken care of his mama, and he'd take care of Quinn, too. He wouldn't be like his old man.

He nodded grimly to himself at the thought, and he took the last few steps two at a time. He didn't bother to knock, then, as he pushed open the back door, but he stomped loudly when he walked down the hall — he didn't need to take Karofsky by surprise and see something he didn't want to see. He heard the voices in the kitchen go quiet a moment before he stalked in.

"Afternoon, boys," he greeted.

Karofsky sat calmly at the table, papers littered in front of him, Turner, Jelski, and Brown all seated around him. "Puckerman," Karofsky said. "Pour yourself a drink and have a seat." He nodded at Jelski to go on, and the fucking Polack looked warily at Puck before he started back in on some explanation about a tip on that big horse race tomorrow night, as if Puck couldn't be trusted. Puck scoffed to himself. He didn't care what the fuck Jelski wanted to tell Karofsky.

He pulled a bottle of whiskey from the cabinet above the sink, and Brown, leaning against the counter, handed him a glass. Puck jerked his head in thanks. Brown was jake, even if he looked like somebody shit on his face.

"What'd you think, Puck?" Karofsky asked.

Puck glanced over, surprised. But he eyed Jelski and bit back a smirk. "Sounds all wet to me," he said, shrugging. "Where you getting your information, Jelly?"

Jelski glared and started to reply, but Karofsky cut him off.

"Leave off, Jan," Karofsky said lightly, sighing as he pulled out a cigar. "That's enough. It all looks good. Now get out of here, all of you. Mr. Puckerman and I have some business."

"What do you want to do about all this?" Jelski asked, motioning at the table.

"Make it happen," Karofsky said. Turner stood, and Brown started towards the door.

"But —"

"We're finished, Jelski," Karofsky snapped.

Puck grinned, and Jelski silently mouthed off at him as he left. Puck waved a little, but his amusement deflated slightly once Karofsky's boys were all gone, and Karofsky motioned for him to take a seat. Karofsky drew on his cigar as Puck sat, and he eyed Puck quietly. Puck only waited.

"You've promised me twice over, Puck, that I could trust Mr. Hudson."

Oh, fuck.

Puck didn't need this. He didn't give a damn about much, but he wanted to take care of Quinn and his kid, and he wanted to look out for Finn, too. Everybody had people, right? Finn was Puck's people. They had a history. But how could Puck help Finn if Finn wouldn't help himself? And, anyway, why couldn't Karofsky trust Finn? Okay, maybe the boy didn't do his best to keep Karofsky's good faith, but the dumb fuck hadn't made any trouble for Karofsky either, not yet.

And if he listened to a single word Puck said, he wouldn't make trouble any time soon.

"You can," Puck said. "Hell, you can trust him more than Jelly — damn fuck doesn't have balls or brains. Can't tell his right foot from his left."

Karofsky smirked. "But, see, I like them dumb," he said. "You can trust the dumb fellows. That's why I never had much problem with Hudson before. He didn't strike me as the sort to make trouble." He paused. "I'm beginning to think I underestimated him. Hudson's got more — what'd you say? — _balls and brains_ than I thought. And I'm not so sure I like that."

"He's solid," Puck said, his face blank. He made out best when he kept his face blank. "Didn't he have a talk with Will last night?"

Karofsky rolled his cigar between his fingers. "We had to push him hard on that. Corner him. Threaten his girl. I don't like to work that hard."

"You won't have to," Puck said, choosing his words carefully, "not for much longer. Hudson doesn't like to rough fellows up or get his hands _too_ dirty, not now, not when he still thinks he'll go places someday. But give him time. Everybody comes around eventually, right?" He smiled a little.

"I don't give _my_ people time," Karofsky said. "I want to be certain of _my_ people, and I want to be certain _now_. That kid's not going anywhere, and I want to make sure he knows that. I'm all he's got, and he better start to respect that."

Puck nodded. He downed the rest of his whiskey. "I'll talk to him."

"You've done that," Karofsky snapped. Puck tensed. "And it didn't do any good, did it?"

"What do you want me to do, then?" Puck asked.

"I want you to make it clear to him," Karofsky said slowly, "that he _doesn't_ have a future outside of me. He's not going anywhere. He's not gonna box anymore. He's gonna work for me. You make that clear."

Puck forced himself to say cool. Finn wouldn't take any of that, he wouldn't, not all in one fell swoop. "He likes to box," Puck said. "And he brings in dough, too. Why stop that?"

"Because I'm shitting money," Karofsky said, his mouth a thin line. "I don't need Finn Hudson for that. I _need_ him loyal, like the rest of you crumbs. And _you _—" he jabbed his finger at the table — "are gonna make that happen."

"Look," Puck said, his voice low, "you can trust Finn. He knows you own him. But he likes to think of himself as a boxer. He likes to think he can pay off his debts to you someday. He doesn't realise he doesn't have a future in the ring. He won't up and walk away from the game now. But if you give him a little while —"

"I already said I don't give time, Puckerman," Karofsky snapped. "He doesn't want to work for me now? I don't care. He doesn't have a choice. He's not gonna box anymore." He paused, leaning towards Puck and nearly snarling. "If he won't walk away from the ring, then we'll just have to drag him away from it ourselves, won't we?" He stopped, his expression distorted, and Puck nearly saw the idea form in Karofsky.

And Karofsky smiled, his eyes feral. "He can't box if his hands are fucked up, can he?"

Puck didn't say anything, but Karofsky started to smirk as he leaned back in his seat and relaxed a little. "That's right. That'll clean this mess up. You fuck up his hands, Puck, and that'll be that. He won't have nowhere else to go, no one else to help him. He'll only have me."

"He's my boy," Puck said quietly. "I can't go after him like that, not if he doesn't deserve it."

"Your boy?" Karofsky said. "_Your_ _boy_? Is that what you said?"

"Boss —"

"Fuck up his hands, Puck," Karofsky growled, "or I'll fuck up your face — and Quinn's, too."

Puck froze, and Karofsky raised his eyebrows at him.

"What?" Karofsky asked. "You think I didn't know? I know. But I'm a generous man, and I've forgiven you. Have your whore. It's on me. But you better pay your dues." He paused. "Finn belongs to me. You all do. And he needs to know that."

Puck swallowed hard. Finn would never listen to Puck, would never take his advice. And Karofsky wouldn't back down.

"Puck?" Karofsky said.

Puck gripped his empty glass hard and nodded. "You're the boss."

* * *

He dropped into a seat at the bar, nodding hello at a few fellows before his eyes scanned the room.

Karofsky sat, as always, at his usual table, with Turner, Puck, and a few others beside him. Artie sat arguing with Madam Sylvester in his regular back booth, and Mercedes stood at the front, saying something to one of the jazz cats. Finn frowned.

He didn't see Will anywhere.

"Here," Sam said, sliding him a drink. "You need it."

Finn nodded. "Will okay?" he asked gruffly.

"He's fine."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Puck took him home last night, and he'll sleep it off and be just fine." He paused, leaning closer and lowering his voice. "You did what you had to, Finn. That's the way it goes. You can't let it get to you."

"Sure," Finn said. "Sure."

Sam turned away to serve someone else, and Finn traced the rim of his glass. He had tried to wrap his head around everything at the gym, and for a little while he had felt better. Bieste berated him for his bruised knuckles, though, telling him he'd be as good to her with bruised hands as a one-legged parrot — or something like that.

What could he tell her?

He had promised to take better care of his hands, and he'd left, his stomach heavy inside him.

"Good evening, Finn," Kurt greeted suddenly, sitting beside him. He hailed Sam with one hand and took out his notebook and pen with the other.

"Kurt," Finn said. He wished Rachel would come. "You got the time?" he asked.

Kurt glanced at his watch. "Fifteen 'till seven."

She'd be there in fifteen minutes, then. Finn drowned the rest of his drink and then knocked the glass slightly on the bar. Sam slid Kurt a drink and refilled Finn's. "Where's Rachel?" Kurt asked.

Finn shrugged. "She'll be here soon," he said.

Kurt nodded. He started to write something in his notebook, and he didn't look up when he went on. "He threatened her, didn't he?" he asked. Finn frowned, and Kurt clarified quietly, "Karofsky." Finn's hand clenched slightly. "Did you tell her?" Kurt asked.

"Write your novel, Kurt," Finn said, "and leave me be."

"It upset her, didn't it? I can't blame her. But —"

"_Kurt_."

Chastised, Kurt nodded and said nothing more. He had always asked questions — he had as long as Finn had known him. For years, Kurt had come by the bar and needled them all with question after question, as if he simply _had_ to know everything. And Finn had never much minded before. What did it matter if Kurt liked to know everything? But it mattered now, because Finn minded now, because he couldn't _take_ the questions anymore, he just couldn't.

When had that changed?

When had _everything_ changed? When had Karofsky become suspicious? When did Finn suddenly have to prove himself? Karofsky had always had Finn do little chores, and he had Finn hand over most of what he made in the ring, but that was it. And now, suddenly, Karofsky wanted him to rough up fellows just to prove he could? Why? What changed?

Rachel.

It all changed with Rachel.

He didn't know why, didn't know if she had a part in it all or if it were simply coincidence, but it didn't really matter. And he might wish for a lot of things, but he wouldn't wish Rachel away. He might wish Kurt would leave him alone, might wish Karofsky would leave him alone, might wish _everybody_ would leave him alone, but he wouldn't wish that he'd never met Rachel. That one change — that was worth all the others.

"Now, don't hit boiling point," Kurt began again, "but —"

Finn turned to glare at him, only for her small hands to grip his shoulders before she pressed a kiss to the back of his neck. Despite everything, he smiled a little, turning in his seat to wrap an arm around her and kiss her cheek as she greeted first Sam and then Kurt.

She sat, smoothing out her gown. "How was the gym?" she asked Finn, and she started to take off her hat, the one that looked like someone had too much fun with a needle, some thread, and ten dozen pink and orange clothe flowers.

He shrugged. "Same as always. How was your afternoon with Mercedes? She good?"

"She's lovely, although we really only talked for an hour or so, because she had to leave for the club at four. But I went back to the apartment, and I started a roast! It should be finished around one this morning. I know, I know — it's silly to make a roast at this late an hour, but I couldn't help myself, and who cares if we have a feast at one in the morning, right?" She smiled brightly.

"Right," he said, blinking in surprise. But a roast _did_ sound good.

"An Orange Blossom, please, Sam!"

He didn't know what had made her so happy, but he didn't so much mind. He wanted her to be happy. He didn't want her to feel the way he did. He didn't want her to worry the way he did. He started to ask her what else she might have done that afternoon, but Kurt leaned around Finn to say something to her.

"You can make roast?" Kurt asked.

"Of course!" She paused. "Well, I've never _actually _made one, but I followed the recipe clearly, and while I'd like to keep watch on the oven for my first roast, I convinced myself that would be silly, and I had to come here, anyway. Thank you, Sam."

She began to describe the recipe in detail, only stopping when Mercedes came by to say hello. Kurt tried to intervene a few times with questions, sometimes quietly to Finn, who always glared, and sometimes to Rachel, who always pretended not to hear, but he finally gave up and went to sit with Artie. Finn leaned closer to Rachel, kissing her temple.

She smiled a little at him. "Will's fine," he told her quietly.

"I know," she said. Her eyes softened. She squeezed his hand, and she started to say something else.

"Evening, folks," Puck said. "Sam! Whiskey!" He leaned against the bar. "Ms. Berry. Mr. Hudson."

"Puck," Finn said tiredly. Did Karofsky want them to come sit at his table? Really? Couldn't he let Finn off for _one_ night? "What'd you want?"

"What? Can't I say hello? Have a drink, maybe? And tell Ms. Berry that her glad rags look nice tonight? Is that a crime now?" He smiled, but he looked off. Finn frowned. He knew when Noah Puckerman had something under his skin.

"Thank you, Mr. Puckerman," Rachel said lightly. "But I think Finn wanted to know if Mr. _Karofsky_ wanted something?"

"Nope, baby," he said, taking his whiskey from Sam.

"Oh. In that case, then, how was your day?" Rachel asked him. She looked around and then lowered her voice as if they were all in on a conspiracy. "Did you and Quinn have a nice time?"

"I haven't talked to Quinn in a few days, actually," Puck said. "Why?"

"You didn't see her this afternoon? I was over at Mercedes's, and Mercedes told me you meant to stop by and see Quinn this afternoon." She looked at Puck with a puzzled brow, and Finn did, too, his frown only deepening when Puck kept his gaze on his whiskey, shrugging.

"I got busy," Puck said. He downed all his whiskey in one go and slammed the glass down. "Well, this has been ten sorts of fun, but I'll leave you two to make eyes at each other and neck around." He didn't look at them as he walked away. Finn didn't know what to think. He watched as Puck slumped into a seat beside Santana at a back table and mutter something darkly to her.

What was happening _now_?

"Finn?"

He glanced over at Rachel.

"Nevermind him," she said. "Do you want to play cards?"

He agreed, and the next few hours passed slowly. It seemed wrong, almost, to sit there at the bar, drinking and talking with Sam and playing cards with Rachel, not after last night, not with everything still so muddled in his mind. But Karofsky didn't try to talk to him all night, and everyone acted as if nothing had changed, and maybe nothing really had.

Maybe Finn had proved to Karofsky what he needed to prove, and that would be it, at least for a few weeks. That seemed like too much to ask for, but . . . but _maybe_. . . .

A little past eleven, the crowds thinning, Finn threw down another lost hand and asked Rachel if she wanted to go. She hadn't let him eat dinner — "you'll ruin your appetite for the roast!" — and he didn't want to sit there with here in that smoky club where Karofsky, Puck, and the rest all sat, too, not if they could be home happily by themselves.

Rachel nodded, standing, and Sam handed over her hat from behind the bar. "See you tomorrow," he said, and Rachel thanked him, pulling on her hat and tying the pink ribbon. She slipped an arm through Finn's, and they started for the door.

But Puck stopped them. "Hold on, now," Puck said. He ran a hand over his shaved head. "I hate to keep you out so late, babe," he told Rachel, "but I . . . ." He stopped. Finn frowned. No one said anything. Finn glanced at Rachel, who blinked up curiously at Puck.

"What's the matter, Puck?" Finn asked.

"I, um, you know, actually, this can wait until later." He tipped an imaginary hat at Rachel and then looked at Finn. "Take your girl home, Finn. I'll see you tomorrow." He nodded, smiled briefly, and turned away from them as suddenly as he had called out and caught up with them.

"He seems a little shaken up or something," Rachel said quietly.

"Yeah," Finn said, watching Puck go to the bar. "Or something. C'mon." He led Rachel out of the club, and they started the few blocks to his apartment in silence.

"Are you still upset over Will Shuester?" Rachel finally asked.

"Shouldn't I be?" Finn said. He should. No matter what anyone said, no matter how cornered he had been, he had still _beaten_ Will Shuester _unconscious_. And now he wanted to tell himself it wouldn't happen again, and all was well? But everything _wasn't_ well.

"You should," Rachel said, stopping in the street and forcing him to stop too as she took his hands and faced him, "but you shouldn't beat _yourself_ up over it. It's not your fault."

"No? And when it happens again, will it still not be my fault?"

"It won't happen again," Rachel said.

"You don't know that. Why wouldn't it? You said yourself that Karofsky won't simply let up now. What's made you change your mind? And Puck — did you see the way he acted? Something's happening, and that Puck wouldn't tell me, that Puck's _worried_. . . ."

He looked away from her.

"Finn —"

"Come on. Let's just go home." He started walking again, and she quietly went with him, not saying anything more the rest of the way. As soon as they reached the apartment, however, as soon as they climbed up to his landing and he shut the door behind them, she turned to him, clasping her hands and taking a deep breath.

"What?" he said.

"Why don't we simply walk away?" she asked.

"Walk away?" he repeated, frowning.

"That's right," she said, her eyes searching his face. "Walk away. We pack up, and we leave. I have a little money saved, not much, but enough, and you have some, too, I'm sure. We can walk away. What's to stop us?"

"You mean besides Karofsky?" he said. Hadn't she been paying _any_ attention?

"What would he do?" she said, and she looked earnest now. "You owe him money, but do you really think he would go to all the bother to hunt you down and find you? He has other people to worry about, and does he even have the resources for that? I mean, as far as I can tell, he dabbles some in organised crime, but he's not _really_ a part of any crime family, is he?"

"No," Finn said slowly, "but he still has people."

"And he would send all those people after you and I indefinitely? We could go somewhere no one would suspect, and we could lie low, and he'd give up eventually, wouldn't he?" She made it all sound so simple. But it _wasn't_.

"With what money?" Finn asked. "You have, what, ten dollars? I've about twenty saved. And my ma counts on me for money. And what if Karofsky goes to her in search of me?" Finn panicked a little at the thought alone. He couldn't let anyone go after his _mother_.

"But would he really bother with all that?" Rachel insisted.

"If he let you and I walk away, what's to stop Puck from going, and from taking Quinn with him?" he asked. "And why would Sam and Mercedes stick around? We count on him for money, sure, but he's got other ties on us —"

"He has _fear_ on you," Rachel interrupted. "Okay. Okay, maybe we can't simply up and run away. But what if we all team up and go to the police? Or we could go to the Bureau of Investigation! I read in the paper that Mr. Hoover —"

"Mr. Hoover doesn't care about David Karofsky," Finn said. "He isn't interested in going after people like Karofsky, trust me. He likes to place bets himself, you know. Hoover isn't going to a damn for us."

"What about the regular police force, then?" Rachel offered, but some of the spirit had left her words.

"What would we tell them?" Finn said.

"We would tell me that he was a murderer," Rachel said, "that he shot Azimio in cold blood, and we all saw it!" Her eyes were wide.

"And then the police will say, 'where's your proof?' and we'll have nothing."

"We're witnesses! That's proof!"

"Karofsky would go to court and make us all out to be fools. He'd probably turn the tables on us, too, and one of us would end up in prison, framed for Azimio's murder." Finn didn't even have to think about it all. He had thought about this, and he _knew_ none of her suggestions stood a chance. He couldn't simply traipse into the police office and tell a few coppers some tales about mean Mr. Karofsky.

"There has to be _some_ way," Rachel said quietly.

"There's not," Finn said, wishing he didn't have to tear Rachel down this way, didn't have to watch all the hope of someday, somehow leave her the way he'd watched the feelings leave Mercedes, and Artie, too, and even Tina.

He slumped into a seat at the kitchen table. He could smell her roast. He scrubbed a hand over his face. And then he looked back at Rachel, and her found her gazing intently at him.

"There _is _a way," she said quietly. "I know that the system doesn't much work. Jesse St. James killed my father, and he was too charming to take the blame. And I know money's short, and I know Karofsky has far too much power. But I _refuse_ to believe that this is it, that this is all. I won't watch you become like Noah Puckerman. And I won't watch Sam and Mercedes continue to suffer, either. We can't walk away, fine. We can't go to the police, okay.

"But we _will_ find a way. We'll bring Karofsky down, and we'll _all_ have a fresh start."

She didn't leave any room for argument, and he nodded a little, growing more certain as she smiled. How did she do that? How did she make everything seem okay, even if only for moment? He stared at her, at her pink dress with the little white polka dots and the orange lace linings, and her pink and orange hat, and she looked so earnest, and she looked so _perfect_.

"We can do this," she said, "but you have to help. You can't give up yet, Finn, not the way Sam and Puck have." She came closer, and she knelt down in front of him, taking his hands in hers. "You have to be a leader."

"I don't know if I'm cut out for that," he said.

"You are," she replied matter-of-factly, so very certain of that fact. He grasped her waist and tugged her up, almost cradling her in his lap. Gently, he tugged off her hat, and then he ran a hand through her hair. She nuzzled his nose affectionately with hers.

"What did I do to get you?" he murmured.

"You were you," she breathed.

He kissed her, and her lips opened under his. She gripped his shoulders, pressing herself closer to him, and he lost himself a little in it all. But she pulled back slightly, her hot breath tickling his jaw as she spoke. "We're in this together," she promised softly.

His own words came out low and grated but came out nonetheless. "I'm gonna marry you," he said, cupping her face to catch and keep her gaze. He didn't know much anymore, but he knew _that._

Slowly, not breaking his gaze, she kissed him sweetly. "You better," she whispered.

He pushed himself to his feet, then, lifting her up and onto the table and tangling his hands in her hair as she kissed him again. "I love you," he told her, breathless, kissing her ear as he whispered the words. He gripped her waist and dragged her closer. Her dress bunched up around her waist as she slid across the table. She echoed his words, her dark eyes holding his gaze, her breath tickling his chin. He hooked his thumbs under her underwear, pulling the material down.

She made short work of his belt buckle, her lips bruising his, and she shoved his pants down just far enough before she dug her heels into the backs of his thighs, drawing him still closer to her. But he kissed her throat, and then her collarbone, and then he knelt down, biting her thigh and tearing a whimper from her when he pressed his tongue flat against her. Her hands twisted in his hair and tugged, her voice low in her throat as she murmured his name.

He stood, kissed her quickly, hotly, his hands just brushing her breasts, her nipples hard even through the cotton of her dress. Heat swept through him — _need_ swept through him, enveloped him, made his whole body _thrum_. He gripped her hips to lift her slightly, lift her just enough to let her sink down onto him.

Her breath caught and her fingers dug into his shoulders. He kissed her softly, drew back, and then thrust into her again, grunting slightly as he met her gaze, half hidden under heavy lids but still dark and intent on him. Her breath stuttered each time he drove slowly into her, and he watched her face flush, sweat gathering on her forehead. She canted her hips slightly. He groaned and trailed one hand up to skim across her neck and then cup her face. Her hands grappled for purchase along his back, slippery with sweat.

His movements grew jerkier, but he could feel her toes curl against his legs, could feel her thighs tighten and tremble against his own. He reached a hand between them, pinching her clit, and he held her gaze still, even when her body shattered around his. Moments later, he came with her name torn from his throat.

She panted, her chest rising and falling heavily, before finally her head fell forward, her forehead pressing against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her head, her hair a messy tangle now. "_Finn_," she murmured, her voice thick with so much more than that one word.

He held her tighter. "I know," he whispered.

She pulled back after a moment, and she looked almost sheepish. "I should check on my roast."

He chuckled a little, and he helped her slip her underwear back on. She went to the oven, he buttoned his pants back up, and someone knocked on the door. They both froze, glancing at each other with wide eyes.

A moment later, the door flew open.

Puck came in, his face grim. "What's going on?' Finn demanded. And then Karofsky followed him, with Turner and Brown, too. Finn's mouth went dry. He glanced at Rachel as Brown shut the door again. "Go into the bedroom," he told her.

"What —?"

"Now," he snapped, and he stepped forward, stepped around the table, stepped between Rachel and them.

"What's the matter?" Karofsky asked. "Don't want your girl to see this?"

"See what?" Rachel asked.

"Bedroom. _Now._"

"Finn —" she began, her voice panicked.

"It had to come to this," Puck said, his voice tight. "You wouldn't listen to me."

Finn clenched his fists. "Look, whatever's the matter, whatever you want from me, don't — let's go back to the club, or outside, or —"

"No," Karofsky said coldly. "Puck couldn't manage the job earlier, and I told him it would happen tonight, whether or not he _felt_ like it." He crossed his arms over his chest. "And, since apparently have to supervise everything now, I needed to come along."

"What job? Supervise what? Come along for what? What's this about?" Finn demanded.

"You're finished boxing," Karofsky said.

"What?" Finn said. What was happening? How — when — what _was_ this? "What's happened? Okay, I know you want me to come work for you, Puck's told me, but I'm a boxer. It's what I do. And I've proven that I can —"

Puck pulled a gun.

Rachel screamed and clapped her hand to her mouth.

"What you do," Karofsky snarled slowly, "is what I _tell_ you to do. You. Ain't. Gonna. Box. Any. More. You hear me?"

Brown stepped forward, grabbing Finn's arm, and when Finn started to shove him away, furious, Puck cocked the gun, and Turner took hold of Finn's other arm. "Don't make this worse than it has to be," Puck said shortly, his face hard.

Finn couldn't believe this. How could _Puck_ —?

Brown and Turner slammed Finn back against the table, Brown holding a hand tightly to his neck and pinning him flat on his back as Turner slammed his fist into Finn's stomach. "Don't!" Rachel cried, starting forward, but Puck grabbed her and Finn didn't have time to give more than a strangled shout before Puck shoved Rachel back towards the bedroom.

"Listen to your fellow," Puck told her darkly, and he walked over to Finn.

"Guys, c'mon, whatever —!" The hand on his neck tightened, and he choked a little

"Sorry, Hud," Puck said, his eyes blank. "This one's already done." He lifted the gun.

Finn threw his weight against Brown, who stumbled backwards, and Finn tossed off Turner, lunging for Puck, because Puck wouldn't really shoot him, he wouldn't _really_, and then suddenly Rachel screamed, and Finn's eyes flew to her, to where Turner stood with his arms around her and another gun cocked at her.

"Let go of her," Finn said, breathing hard.

Nobody moved. Brown grabbed Finn's arms, and when Finn started to throw him off, Turner pressed the gun harder against Rachel's jaw, and she whimpered, tears beading in her eyes. Brown forced Finn back against the table.

"You aren't a boxer anymore," Karofsky said. "You work for me now."

Puck stepped forward, and he turned the gun in his hand, and he —

"Wait — no!" Rachel said desperately, "please, no, I —!"

Finn jerked off the table, because he had to get to her, he just _had_ to, but Brown only tightened his hold on Finn, his hand bruising Finn's neck. "Keep quiet, Rachel," Puck snapped. He met Finn's gaze, and then he slammed the handle of the gun against Finn's hand.

_Fuck._

"You should've listened to me before," Puck murmured. He slammed the handle against Finn's hand a second time, and a third time. Finn grit his teeth, staring at Puck and willing the searing burn in his hand to dull.

"Shoot the fucking hand, damn it," Karofsky muttered.

"I know! _Please_! Listen!" Rachel screamed. "I know who —!"

Finally, Puck's own hand trembled a little, but he aimed the gun and fired, and Finn let out a strangled yell, and —

"I KNOW WHO WENT TO THE POLICE!"

"What?" Karofsky asked sharply. Every eye flew to Rachel.

"I know," she repeated, sobbing, "_I know_!"

"Let her go," Karofsky said, and Turner released her. She stumbled forward, towards Finn. "Him, too," Karofsky said curtly, and Puck stepped back. Brown released Finn, who gasped and slumped down to the floor, half curling around his bloody hand as he went. Rachel had her arms around him in an instant, and he cradled his hand to his chest and sank into her.

"She's lying," Turner said.

"No," Rachel said, trembling against Finn.

"Who is it?" Karofsky demanded.

Finn felt her straighten against him. "I'm not lying. You told Finn to go after Will because he might have gone to the cops. But it wasn't him, and you know that. And I know who it was. I know who it _is_. He came to me for help. I know."

"Who?" Karofsky shouted, spit flying from his lips.

"We want out," Rachel said, her voice tinged with desperation.

"Rachel," Finn breathed. She was playing with fire. Couldn't she see that?

"I don't care what the fuck you want," Karofsky snarled, stepping forward menacingly. "It doesn't work that way. You don't make demands. You tell me what I want to know, and _maybe_ —"

"And maybe you'll wait until next week to shoot Finn again and beat me up? Why would I save you for _that_?" Her words seemed to grow a kind of edge, a kind of courageous hardness, as she went on. "That informant — he has _everything_ on you. He only had one person left he needed to talk to, and he did that tonight. He'll go the police with the last bit of information soon. If you want to stop him, then —

"_Who_?" Karofsky demanded furiously. "Who is it?"

"I'm not going to tell you," she said, "not yet."

Turner started towards them both, eyes flashing, his gun raised —

"But I'll take care of him," Rachel said quickly, and Karofsky flung an arm out, stopping Turner. "I'll take care of him," she said again, nodding. Her hands had curled tightly around the material of Finn's shirt, and he had no idea what was doing, no idea if _she_ had any idea what she was doing.

"You'll take care of him?" Karofsky repeated. "You know, kitten, where I'm from, that means you'll _kill_ him."

"Funny, that," Rachel said, and her own voice had turned icy now. "It means that where I'm from, too. I said I'll take care of him. And I will. I'll kill him." Finn reeled a little. Had she really said that? Was this some sort of bluff?

But Karofsky started at her, and she stared back, and then he started to chuckle a little. "Who would've thought? The sweet Friday night singer wants to shoot up a fellow for me." He paused. "Do you really think I believe you could do that?"

"Why not?" she said. "I have before. Ask Jesse St. James. Ask anyone from Lima, Ohio about me. Why do you think I left? Somebody shot my daddy, and I shot that somebody. I can take care of my own."

Finn's heart pounded against his chest.

Nobody said anything.

"Give me the gun," Rachel said, "and I'll shoot Mr. Turner right now just to prove I can."

Slowly, Karofsky started to smile. "I don't think we have a need for that," he said. He stared at her. "You want out?" he asked.

"That's right," she said, nodding. "I want to leave McKinley's, leave Detroit, even, and I want to take Finn with me. You need to let us both go. Finn won't have any more debts to you. Nobody will go to police, because we'll all have secrets to keep, and the informant will be dead."

This wasn't really happening.

Finn was having a nightmare.

"Okay," Karofsky said. "You have one day. Twenty-four hours. By this time tomorrow, I want to see a body, and I want to see proof that the body belongs to the fellow who wanted to sell me out to the coppers. You don't give me that —" He paused, his voice going cold. "— you don't give me that, and we'll be right back here tomorrow. I'll shoot you myself." He let the words hang in the air for a moment.

"You _do_ give me that," he went on, "and you, Ms. Berry, can walk away, take Finn with you, and never have to see my face again. Debts paid. Trust established. _Done_. We have a deal?"

Rachel nodded. "Deal."

"Rachel," Finn said, shaking his head.

"Deal," Rachel repeated, not taking her eyes off Karofsky, not even to acknowledge Finn.

"And if you two try to run —" Karofsky began.

"We won't," Rachel said. "We're not fools."

"Good. Then we have a deal?"

"We have a deal."

**tbc**

* * *

a/n: Okay, this chapter took a lot of work! I'm sorry for the long wait. I rearranged the order of events (there was a lot of cutting and pasting), rewrote a scene from Finn's POV in Rachel's, and had to grit my teeth and delete an entire scene I decided wasn't necessary. But I think I like the finished product. Let me know what you think!

Also, I started a tumblr. I have NO IDEA what I'm doing, as I've never really "blogged" before or anything of the sort. It'll probably go no where, because I'll be too shy even to follow other people's blogs, but, well, I'll give it a shot. It's argyledpenguin. Feel free to stop over and ask me something :)


	10. Chapter 10

_a/n: and here it is, the final chapter! There's an epilogue still to come, though. I think I confused some of you, who thought the last chapter was the final chapter and that this would be an epilogue, and I'm not sure how I did that, but I apologise. This is the last chapter, and the epilogue will follow in the next week or so._

* * *

He stared at the door.

And then Rachel started to stand, and his face snapped to hers.

He grabbed a hold of her sleeve, stopping her, and forced her to meet his gaze. "What . . . ? Rachel, what . . .?" He didn't even know what to say. He couldn't believe any of this. Had that really happened? Had Karofsky really stormed into Finn's apartment? Had Puck really shot Finn? Had Rachel really made a deal with Karofsky to _kill_ someone? No. It wasn't possible.

"Don't worry," she said quietly. "We can bandage your hand. You'll be fine. But we need to stem the blood flow. I'll get a towel —"

"No," he said, and he stared at her, searching her face for some sort out of explanation. Didn't she —? "No, Rachel, what . . . you made a deal with Karofsky. You — you told him you would kill someone. How can you . . . how are you gonna get out of that? We _can't_ run, Rachel."

What could they do? They had to figure out something. They had to —

"We won't run," Rachel said.

Why wasn't she upset? Why wasn't she worried? Why wasn't —?

She leaned forward and kissed his forehead. "It'll be okay," she said. She stood, this time too quickly for him to stop her, and she crossed the apartment and disappeared into the bathroom. Did that mean she planned to uphold her end of the deal with Karofsky? Did she intend to _take care of_ the informant? No. She couldn't. But what had she said about her father? She said that she had shot the man who shot him, hadn't she?

But she told Finn that Jesse St. James killed her father. This didn't make any sense.

And Rachel couldn't really want to _kill_ someone. No. Somehow, Rachel had a plan, and Finn didn't understand, hadn't put the pieces together. Right? Right. _Right_.

She came back with a damp towel in her hand, and she knelt down beside him. "Here," she murmured, gently wrapping the towel tightly around his bloodied hand. He cringed at the pain, biting back a groan. Puck had shot him. Puck had _shot_ him. He would never box again. What would he do instead? He didn't have anything else — except Rachel.

He caught her gaze again, and then she touched his cheek softly, her eyes sympathetic. "Do you want to go to the hospital?" she asked. "Or I can give you some aspirin, and maybe with a good night's sleep, you'll feel a little better. And you have bandages around here, don't you? Where are they?" She started to stand again.

"Wait, wait," he said, because she _had_ to realise how everything had spiralled out of control. "What are we gonna do, Rachel? Not about my hand, but about . . . you made a deal with Karofsky to _kill_ somebody. What . . . what are we gonna do? We have to come up with something. And . . . and you father, you said. . . . What are we gonna do, Rachel?"

He looked at her with a silent plea. He didn't understand _anything_.

"Sometimes," she said slowly, "we do things we don't want to do, because we have to. We don't have a choice. And it's terrible, completely terrible, but it's life."

He stared at her, waiting for something more, but nothing more came. She stared at him, her eyes sad and as desperate for him to understand as he felt desperate for her to explain it all to him. "What do you mean?" he finally asked.

"I mean, if I had a real choice, I wouldn't hurt anyone. But I don't have a choice."

He frowned. He tried to make sense of her words. He could only find one meaning in them, though. He stared at her, unsure. She didn't really mean that. She didn't. She couldn't. "You weren't lying to Karofsky," he said. "You meant it. You're gonna kill somebody."

"Finn," she said sadly. "I — it's the only way, don't you see?"

He shook his head. No. _No._ This was crazy, completely crazy. "You don't mean that," he said. "You can't. You're the one who told me that there are mistakes we can't take back, mistakes that haunt us, and you didn't want that for me. How can you want that for yourself? No. No. You —"

"Finn —"

"Do you even know who the informant really is?" he exclaimed.

"Of course I do," she said. "I wouldn't have lied like that to Karofsky, not with so much at risk." She paused. "I've known for a few days. Like I told Karofsky, the informant came to me for help."

"Who is it?" Finn asked, trying to go over every interaction he had seen Rachel have over the last week. Was it somehow he knew? It had to be. But when had Rachel . . . and why wouldn't she tell him? Didn't she trust him?

"I can't tell you," she said.

He frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I mean I can't tell you," she said again, "not yet, at least."

"Why not?"

"Because you'll try to stop me," she said.

"Try to stop you?" he echoed. He didn't understand. "God, Rachel, _stop it_!" He stared at her incredulously. "You're not gonna kill somebody. You're not. You told Karofsky that to protect me, you made that stupid deal, but you're not gonna go through with it. You're not!"

"I have to!" she said, eyes wide.

"No, no, you don't," he said. "You're the one who always says there's a way, that we can do something, find some way out, find some way to stop Karofsky from completely destroying us, and you can't tell me you've suddenly changed your mind!" He didn't know what to say to her. How — she — _what_ — she couldn't be serious! She couldn't!

"I was wrong, Finn," she said, and she grasped his shoulders tightly. "Don't you see? We _don't_ have any other way! I was silly to say otherwise. But this is it, Finn, this is our chance to get out, the both of us, free of debt and free to start fresh! And what other possible alternative is there?"

"But — but —" he stuttered, and he tried to push himself up to his feet, and she started to help him, and the words poured out of him. "You can't _kill_ someone!" he exclaimed. "I know you can't want to, and you . . . Rachel, _please_, if there's some plan you aren't telling me, _please_, tell me! Because you — _you_ — told me that there are mistakes a person can't take back, and you didn't want me to make those mistakes, and I know that you don't want to make them, either, and I know you don't believe you have to —"

"I _told_ you, Finn, that we'd find a way to escape, and this is it, this is our way! And it's not what I thought, it's not what I wanted, but it's a way, and we don't _really_ have a choice —!"

"No! Stop. You're not serious. You're _not_." She wasn't. She couldn't be.

"Can't you trust me, Finn? I know what to do, and we'll be able to walk away after tomorrow."

"After you kill someone, you mean," he said, pacing slightly, his hand still throbbing, his head spinning, everything going wrong, so _fucking_ wrong.

This wasn't possible. And if, for whatever reason, she suddenly thought she _had_ to do this, well, then, he'd _have_ to stop her. He'd make her see that she couldn't do this, even if she felt backed into a corner. He knew all about that feeling, and she was the one who made him think there was a way to get _out_ of the corner.

"Please, Finn," she whispered.

"Please what?" he said. "Please let you kill someone?"

She took a shuddering breath and turned away from him, and he deflated a little. But how could any of this be real? How could she really mean a single thing she said? He watched her go to the bathroom, then, as he sank into a seat at the table, and he heard her rummage around for a few minutes before she emerged with the bandages he kept for his after his worst fights.

She came over to him, and he kept his gaze steady on her as she unwrapped the towel and tried to clean up his hand. He grit his teeth, letting out a slow breath through his nose, willing the pain to recede to the back of his mind. His hand was fucked, and he would never box again, but he couldn't think about that right now, not on top of everything else.

"There," she finally murmured, tying off the end of the bandage. He still said nothing, not when she held out aspiring and a glass of water to her. He only stared at her, and he waited to see some sort of explanation in her face, in her eyes, in _her_, because there _had_ to be one.

"Please," she finally said, her voice breaking, "please, don't look at me like that." She looked so torn, then, and he reached out and cupped her face with his good hand.

"You were so upset when you saw Sam kill someone," he told her softly. "Can you honestly tell me that tomorrow you'll be able to hold out a gun and shoot someone yourself?"

She wouldn't be able to. He knew she wouldn't. He knew it.

But she turned away from him again. "I — I need to take the roast out. I hope you're hungry."

"Rachel," he said.

She didn't reply.

She wanted to be strong, he knew. She wanted to help him, and to take care of him, and to find a way for them to make it out of this mess — and it made her act screwy, made her talk crazy. But she didn't have to handle this by herself, because they were in this together, like she had told him before. And they would find a way out of this, and nobody would have to die.

"We can make up a name," he said.

She turned slightly, half-bent over the oven, a crease in her forehead as she looked at him. "For the informant," he explained, "we can make up a name, and then we can tell Karofsky that the person skipped town. He might not believe us, but I don't think he'll really kill us, not as long as we promise not to make any trouble. I can take a few bruises." He would definitely take a few before he'd let Rachel take any.

"And it'll buy us time," he added. That was what they needed — time.

She pulled out the roast, resting it on the oven, and then slowly slipped off her oven mitts as she turned to him, her gaze on the floor. "I don't think it's that simple," she said. "He'll think we played him, think _I_ played him, that I lied when I said I knew the informant. And he has a temper — I know you know that."

"I do," he said. "But it's the best chance we've got." He nodded to himself. He might be able to come up with something better before tomorrow night, but this would work well enough if he didn't. Anything was better than —

"Finn," she said, stepping hesitantly towards him, "I know you want to protect me, but you can't. I have to do this. _Let_ me do this. I can take care of this." She looked so serious, as if she had only to make him see reason and then everything would be okay.

"Take care of this, or do you mean take care of somebody?" he said. "Take somebody for a ride, maybe? _Murder_ somebody?"

"Finn," she said.

"No. You can't. This is crazy. You _can't_ —"

"I can," she interrupted pressingly, "and I will. It's the only way! Can't you see that?" She crossed her arms over her chest, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment as if for patience, and then she looked at him again with grave eyes. "It's the only way," she repeated. "Karofsky —"

"Forget about him!" Finn shouted, shooting to his feet.

"We can't forget about him!" she shouted. "I can't believe _you_, of all people —"

"_You_ can't believe _me_?" he exclaimed. "You're the one acting like someone you're not!"

"I — "

"No matter what Karofsky says or does, you _can't_ kill somebody, because that's not _you_! This is _bullshit_, Rachel! I know you, and killing someone is not you! It's not! And — and if you _can _kill someone, if you can take a gun and shoot some fellow in cold blood, then — then I _don't_ know you, and you're _not_ who I thought you were.

"If you really can go through with this, if you really _do_ go through with this, then you're not who I thought you were, and the girl I'm in love with doesn't exist!"

She looked as if he had slapped her.

The fury built on frustration inside him came tumbling down, and he stood there, breathing heavy, staring at her, and all he couldn't _take_ this. Rachel could make anything seem simple. How could she make everything seem complicated now, when it mattered most? He needed her to be _her_.

"Tell me that's not how this works, Rachel," he whispered.

But, slowly, her lips tight, she looked away from him.

"_Rachel_."

She gazed at the floor, and her words came out emotionlessly. "I told you that Jesse St. James killed my father. He did. He shot him, and he killed him. And I shot Mr. St. James. I wasn't lying to Mr. Karofsky when I told him that, either. I shot Mr. St. James, and I even thought I killed him. That's why his sudden appearance at the club took me by such complete surprise."

She took a trembling breath, and she looked back at him, her arms still crossed so tightly, as if to hold her together. "Maybe, Finn," she said, her quiet voice fluttering, "maybe you don't know me, and you _do_ love someone who doesn't exist."

No. He shook his head at her, tried to think of what to say, tried to will _her_ to say something that would make everything right again, that would put all the pieces together and —

"You know," she whispered, "I'm not hungry. You can have however much of the roast you like, but put the top on when you're finished."

He opened his mouth to reply, to stop her, because they hadn't settled anything, and they had to settle this, had to _fix_ this, and he opened his mouth — and nothing came out. Rachel disappeared into the bedroom, shutting the door quietly behind herself.

He stared at the door. His eyes flickered to the roast. Who made a roast at one in the morning, anyway? Only Rachel would, the Rachel he knew, the Rachel he loved. He did know her. Right? He stared at the roast, and then he stood and went to the stove and covered the pan.

He didn't have much of an appetite, anyway, not after everything that had happened.

He glanced at his hand, nearly _pulsating_ with pain. He should take some more aspirin. He looked at the bedroom door. He found a pack of cigarettes in his coat by the door, and he lit one. It took a minute, what with only one good hand, but he managed. And he stared again at the closed bedroom door.

_Did_ he really know her?

Yes. _Yes_. He did know her.

She had her own sense of style. She could talk and talk and talk and still have more to say. She loved to sing, to belt out her heart in words that meant so much more to her than to anyone else, even those to whom she sang. She wanted to be accepted, wanted to have friends, wanted to be loved, and she would fight for all of that if she had to. She was a fighter. She was fierce, and she was stubborn, and she was determined. But she was kind, too, so kind, so much kinder than most people deserved.

And she possessed this sort of unfailing hope and optimism in the face of the worst of evils, he knew that, too. She claimed she could kill somebody, but she couldn't, and she wouldn't, and she must have some plan he didn't know about. She had a plan, and she didn't want to tell him because that was part of the plan. He just knew.

He finished his cigarette, took a deep breath for courage, and then went to the bedroom.

He pushed the door open slowly, and from the gray light that streamed through the window, he could see the shape of her curled on the bed. He sat beside her, and he reached out, his hand brushing over her hip. She took a sharp breath. "Rachel?" he said softly.

Was she crying?

"I do love you," he whispered. "I know you, and I love you — more than anybody I've ever known. You're it for me. You're _everything_ for me. But none of this makes any sense, Rachel. You tell me you can kill somebody, that you _have_ to kill somebody, because there's no other way, and that's so different from everything else you've ever told me, and I . . . I don't understand."

She didn't say anything.

"I know there's some plan, right? You have a plan. And it's more than murder. I don't know why you won't tell me, but I trust you. I only want to help, but if that's not the plan, then. . . ." He couldn't finish. He didn't think he needed to. "No matter what happens, I won't stop loving you."

She turned slightly, and he could see her face, could just barely make out the tears on her cheeks.

"And if my plan is to kill somebody, like I promised Karofsky?" she asked, her voice thick. "Will you still love me then?"

"That's not your plan," he said. "You wouldn't kill somebody, even if you could, not if there's any other way, and I don't think you'd ever abandon the chance to find another way. You won't kill anybody. You're better than that."

"But I've tried to kill someone before," she whispered. "And I nearly did. I _thought_ I did. You don't know — I never told you the whole story, and —"

"Tell me now," he replied softly. "Tell me the story."

She looked down. She closed her eyes. He reached forward and gently swiped a thumb across her cheek, wiping away her last few tears.

"Jesse St. James did kill my father," she said slowly. "He — Mr. St. James had slept with my mother, and he . . . and my father confronted him. I don't know the whole story. My mother had plenty of affairs before Mr. St. James, but he was the worst, and I think he might have hit her, but . . . but none of that matters. Everything escalated out of control, and Mr. St. James and my father fought, and he killed my father."

She paused. "I'm sorry," he whispered. She nodded a little, but she kept her eyes closed.

"We had a funeral, and the police asked around, but my mother told him she had no idea what had happened, and no one listened to me when I pointed my finger at Mr. St. James. I didn't have proof, beyond his private taunts, and . . . and a few weeks passed, and I slowly realised there was absolutely nothing I could do."

Her voice had grown softer, but she didn't stop.

"But then I came back to the house one afternoon — I had been in town, where I gave voice lessons — and I came back, and I found Mr. Matthews in the kitchen, waiting for me. He — Mr. Matthews — Leroy Matthews — he — he and my father had . . . they had fallen in love. And I liked Mr. Matthews, I really did. I do. I _do_ like him. He's a good man, and he loved my father, and he was always sweet to me."

"Mr. Matthews and your father . . .?"

"They were like Kurt," she said. Her eyes finally flickered open, and she looked at him sadly. "And they really loved each other," she whispered. Tears gathered once more in her eyes. "I don't think anybody made my daddy as happy as Mr. Matthews. They were the ones who really showed me what it meant to love somebody."

It was quiet.

"What happened?" Finn finally asked.

She broke his gaze. "Mr. Matthews worked construction," she said softly, "and he had come by the house to fix the back door of our porch, something he had promised me that he would do. He had come over, and he had run across Mr. St. James. And they had fought, and St. James had tried — he tried to kill him, like he'd killed my father, but Mr. Matthews wrangled the gun from him, and he shot him.

"Mr. Matthews shot him, and he came to me for help, because he didn't know what to do." She paused, and he almost thought that might be it. But then she didn't shoot St. James at all, did she? "He was afraid," she finally went on, "because he knew the whole town would turn on him, and — and I had to help him, Finn."

She finally looked back at him again, her eyes wide and anguished, her whole face etched with a kind of desperation. "I had to, Finn. He was like my family, the only _real_ family I had left, and my father had loved him so much, and I . . . I couldn't let St. James ruin his life, too. Does that — do you understand?"

"Yeah," Finn said slowly. "But, Rachel, what did you . . . what did you do?"

"I — I —" She faltered, and she closed her eyes again, taking a steadying breath. "I took the gun from him. And I told him to go home, and to stay there, and to keep quiet, and to come by the house _tomorrow_ to fix the fence. And then I went out to the woods behind our house, because that's where Mr. Matthews said he had dragged Mr. St. James.

"I found him, Finn, and he was still alive. He had propped himself up against a tree. And I . . . he started to say all these terrible things, and when he started to stand I just . . . I didn't even think, I just . . . I shot him, Finn. I shot him, and I thought I killed him. I didn't want to, but. . . . He was unconscious. I couldn't find a pulse, and there was blood everywhere, so I . . . I ran back to the house, and I cleaned up, and I told myself that Mr. St. James had killed himself, that he had brought everything on himself, and I . . . I waited for everything to go wrong.

"But it never did. Nobody ever found his body. I guess —"

She broke off, and she wiped her tears, but she kept her eyes closed, even when she went on.

"I guess that's because he didn't really die," she said. "He must have simply skipped town, and he came here, apparently. But I still . . . I _thought_ . . . and when everyone in Lima, his dotty old grandmother and my mom and his friends, when they all realised he had disappeared, they started to suspect I had something to with it, as I had spoken so adamantly against him in defence of my father and. . . .

"And after a little while, I couldn't take all the whispers, and I had nothing left to keep me in Lima, so I decided to leave and make something of myself. I ended up in Detroit. That's it," she whispered. "That's the story."

He waited for her to look at him. "Rachel," he said.

Slowly, she opened her eyes, and, slowly, she met his gaze.

"Come here," he muttered, tugging her to him with his good hand. And she seemed suddenly to crumple into him, then, gasping a little as she buried her face in his shirt and he wrapped his arm around her. "We've all got pasts," he whispered. "I would know. It's okay."

"You don't hate me?" she asked, her voice muffled in his shirt yet quivering still.

He shook his head. "No." How could she even ask that? "You didn't kill anyone," he said.

"But I _thought_ — and I meant — I _meant_ to, I think —"

"But you didn't," he repeated. "And if you had, even though you _did_ shoot him, Rachel, you were scared, and you were turned around over your dad, and you were trying to help your dad's — trying to help somebody, and you . . . you made a mistake, but we all do, right?"

She nodded, and she burrowed still closer to him. "I love you," she whispered.

"I love you, too," he said. And he did — _so much_. He couldn't _stop_ loving her, even if he tried, even if she told him she really had killed somebody. And if she killed someone tomorrow — but she wouldn't. He believed what he had told her. He refused to think she could kill someone.

She had a plan. And he would trust her.

She didn't say anything else, and neither did he. It didn't take long for her breathing to even out as she fell asleep, and he focused on the warmth and softness of her so close, not on the aching, throbbing pain in his hand, or the aching, throbbing pain in his head as he remember Karofsky in his apartment, as he remembered Turner with a gun to Rachel's neck, as he remembered the deal Rachel had made.

He had to trust her.

He must have fallen asleep, too, at some point.

Because one minute he lay listening to Rachel snore softly, and the next he was blinking tiredly as bright sunshine streamed in the window. He sat up, and his hand throbbed even worse than before, now in a dull, needling way. Where was Rachel?

She wasn't beside him. He sniffed. He couldn't smell food. And he couldn't hear her soft voice leaking from the kitchen as she sang to herself. "Rachel?" he called. Where had she gone? Everything from last night spun to the forefront of his mind, and he started to panic. Had she gone off to do something secret, something crazy, something dangerous? "Rachel!"

He scrambled from the bed.

She wasn't in the kitchen. She wasn't in the bathroom, either. She wasn't _anywhere_. Had she gone to the market? But, no, there were avocados and a package of uncooked bacon on the counter, and he could see a covered plate in the oven. She had already gone to the market, and she had returned, and she had left again.

Had she gone to see Karofsky? Or the informant? Or —

He had to think. Where would she have gone? Should he go by the club? He started towards the front door. And then the front door opened, and Rachel walked through, her expression grim and an empty plate in her hand. She caught sight of him, her face softening into a smile, only for concern to crease her face. "What's the matter?" she asked, coming towards him.

"Where did you go?" he asked, trying to calm down. He nearly went completely bananas for no reason.

"Next door," she said, frowning a little. "I bought eggs, bacon, and avocados this morning, but then I remembered that we still had the entire roast to eat, so I put your eggs in the oven to stay warm, and I made up a plate for Mr. Figgins." She held up the empty plate, as if to display proof. "I took it over to him. He wakes up early, like me."

"Oh," Finn said. "Okay. Sure. That was — that was nice of you."

She nodded. "Where did you think I had gone?"

"I don't know," he said. "I panicked. Everything's over the edge suddenly — and I woke up and you weren't there and I didn't know what to do. It's nothing. You're fine." He smiled tightly, and she nodded again, returning his smile hesitantly "You wanna eat?" he asked.

"I thought we'd change your bandage first," she said, putting the plate on the counter and heading towards the bathroom, "and then I wanted to take a bath. But I can wait until you go to the gym." She disappeared and then reappeared a moment later with fresh bandages. "We may need to buy some more of these. It looks like you've bled through those ones, and I don't know how these will hold up."

"I'm not going to the gym," he said, sitting down when she gently pushed him towards a chair.

"You're not?" She frowned. He looked at his hand and then back at her. "Oh!" she said, letting out a strained laugh. "Oh, right. I didn't even — here I am with bandages in my arms, going on about how your hand won't stop bleeding, even as I suggest that you'll spend the afternoon at the gym. I think _I'm_ over the edge today!"

"That's okay," he said.

She nodded, smiled briefly, and then sat across from him and started to unravel the bandage around his hand. She wouldn't look at him. It was quiet. "What are we gonna do today?" he finally asked.

"This is really a rather clean shot," she said, inspecting his hand. "I wonder if Mr. Puckerman did that purposefully. He always seemed fond of you, even if I wouldn't usually peg him as the sort to care about anyone other than himself."

He nodded. "Rachel?"

"Does your hand hurt terribly?" she asked. "You know, we should really try to wash your hand, if we can, just to make sure." She started to stand.

"Rachel," he repeated. "Lay off this."

"Lay off what?"

"You know what."

"I — " She sighed. "I'm sorry. I — I honestly don't know what to do today. We'll clean your hand, and have breakfast, and I'll take a bath, but beyond that I don't know. Do you want to go see a movie?" She smiled tentatively.

Was she kidding? "And you'll deal with Karofsky tonight?" he asked. She didn't reply. She kept her gaze on the floor. "Are you still refusing to tell me what the real plan is?" Why did she have to do this?

She looked at him sadly. "You trust me, don't you?"

"I do," he said. "But —"

"Then, please, Finn, if you trust me, _trust_ me."

Did she really have to do it this way? Really? But he met her pleading gaze, and he nodded. "Okay," he said.

She nodded, too. "Thank you. Now — come on. Do you want to take some pre-emptive aspirin? I'm sure it'll hurt something awful to run your hand under water. . . ." He did as she instructed, and she had his hand cleaned and bandaged half an hour later.

It did hurt. A lot. But the eggs were good, and she served the cold roast with avocados, and he told her again that she had to be the best cook in the world. They didn't really talk, though. It was already nearly noon by the time they finished eating. What would they do all afternoon? And what would she do that night?

But he had to trust her. And he did. But —

"What's the matter?" she asked. "Didn't you like the roast?"

"Yeah, it was great," he said, smiling quickly. "But — but can you tell me there's a plan, at least? Just say that there's a plan, and that you're not really gonna kill someone. Just say it, okay? And then we can not think about it all afternoon, I promise." If she wanted to pretend nothing was happening, okay. But she needed to do this one thing for him.

She bit her lip, slowly nodding. "There's a plan." And she smiled a little, but the action was off, and she wouldn't look at him. She stood, and he followed suit to help her clear the table. She started to turn to the sink, and he laid a hand on her shoulder.

"What?" she asked softly.

He kissed her.

And her fingers curled into his shirt, and she sank into his embrace, and her lips move sweetly and softly and almost _cautiously_ under his, like the first time. He drew back, and she whimpered a little. "I love you," he told her, because he didn't think he could say the words enough.

"I love you, too."

And for the briefest moment, he honestly thought maybe everything really work out, and he had no reason to worry. But the moment passed, and they cleaned up the rest of the kitchen, barely speaking. She took a bath. He stared at the wall. She asked if maybe he really did want to go the movies. He agreed.

They went to see _It Happened One Night_ again.

He thought he might catch more of the actual film this time around, when he wasn't so distracted by the newness of how close he sat with Rachel and the way she smelled and how very much he wanted to take her back to his apartment and back to his bed. But he was distracted today, too, and in a much worse way. He felt so terrible, sitting there in a theatre, watching a movie like it was nothing, like he had no reason to worry, like he was any regular fellow out with his girl. He tried to focus on the movie, tried not to let his mind go to McKinley's and Karofsky and some secret plan he couldn't be told. He didn't have much luck.

When the movie ended, Rachel asked if he thought it was as good the second time around as the first, and he only nodded.

They arrived at McKinley's at little past four.

No one was around, not really, not in or around the club, but Sam greeted Finn and Rachel, and Tina smiled as she disappeared back into the kitchen, and Finn could have sworn he saw Quinn across the street. Rachel ordered an Orange Blossom, and Finn ordered a whiskey. Sam asked about his hand. "It's nothing," Finn said. He didn't want to explain, not now.

Sam only shrugged and didn't ask more, and Mercedes came over a few minutes later to talk with Rachel. "You okay, dolly? You seem out of sorts."

"I'm fine," Rachel said breezily.

Mercedes looked at Finn. He looked away. Nobody seemed anxious. Didn't they know what had happened last night? Hadn't they all heard what Karofsky had done and the deal that Rachel had made with him? They certainly didn't act like it, but everybody always knew when these sorts of things happened. How could they _not_ know?

And what sort of plan did Rachel have that didn't involve anyone else?

The club started to fill a little, and Finn saw Karofsky arrive. He tensed when he realised that Karofsky hadn't come simply with Turner and a few various fellows, but with Turner, Jelski, Brown, and Puck. Karofsky only had all four with him when he meant serious business.

He glanced over at the bar, catching Finn's eye, and he smirked. Finn stared at his glass.

"Sam!" Rachel called.

"Another Orange Blossom?" he asked.

"No, thank you," Rachel said. "But, if you don't mind, I'd like to borrow your gun."

Finn choked on his whiskey, and Sam's eyes went wide. "I'm sorry?" he said. He leaned forward, lowering his voice. "Did you just ask to borrow my _gun_?"

"That's right," Rachel said quietly, nodding. "May I?"

Sam looked between Finn and Rachel. "What's going on?" he asked.

"I don't know," Finn replied, and he tried to catch Rachel's eye, hoping she would give him _any_ sort of answer. But she didn't look at him. She kept her gaze on Sam, and she asked again if she could borrow his gun, and if not, did he know anyone else who had a gun?

"If you really need one," Sam started slowly.

"I do," Rachel said calmly. Sam walked a few feet down the bar, glanced back at them for moment, and then reached under the bar.

"Rachel," Finn said, "I thought —"

"I have to do this, Finn," she murmured. Sam laid a towel down on the bar top and then slid the towel to Rachel. She picked it up and slipped it beneath her dress jacket — she had a pocket under there, like she had _planned_ this. And she had. Because this was all part of the plan, the plan that didn't make any sense at all, but he wasn't going to panic, because he trusted her and she had told them there was a plan that didn't involve murder, but —

"I think I'll take another Orange Blossom now," Rachel said.

Finn needed to talk with her. He needed to pull her aside, maybe to the kitchen or out back or to the front of the club, and they needed to _talk_. He couldn't take this.

"Good evening, all!" Kurt said happily, waving a little as he sat at the bar.

"Kurt," Sam said.

Finn nodded in greeting.

Kurt pulled out his notebook, then, and he turned to Rachel, opening his mouth. "No," she snapped at him. "I don't want to talk, or answer any of your questions." She stared at the bar, and her jaw was tight. Kurt didn't say anything, but he closed his notebook, and he ordered a drink, and a few minutes later he smiled tightly at Finn and went to sit with Artie in a back booth.

Rachel asked Finn if he had any cigarettes with him.

"But you don't smoke," he said.

"I need to calm myself down," she replied.

He told her didn't have any, though, and he didn't. She drank the rest of her Orange Blossom at once, and then she ordered another. She had lost it. She _was_ over the edge, and Finn couldn't take this. They were leaving. He started to stand. "Come on," he said, "let's go."

"It's not even eight," she said.

"Rachel —"

She shook her head.

They had dinner. Mercedes stopped by again, and she asked Rachel a second time if she felt okay. She started to ask more, but Rachel snapped at her, too, and Mercedes looked at Finn for an explanation. He shook his head. He didn't know. The next time Mercedes came around, her expression had gone dark, and he realised she must have served Karofsky, and she must have overheard something, and she _knew_ what had happened last night.

But she didn't know what Finn wanted to know — the plan.

And the more time passed, the more he thought maybe there _wasn't_ a plan.

Puck came back to the bar. "Evening, Sam," he said. Sam nodded. Finn wouldn't look at Puck. He wanted to pop him, or strangle him, or slam his head against the bar. He said nothing, though, even when he felt Puck's gaze on him. "How's your hand?" Puck murmured.

"What are you doing here, Puckerman?" Rachel asked sharply.

Puck sighed. "He wants you to go on stage," he told her.

"Mr. Karofsky?" Rachel asked, doubt flooding her voice. Finn looked over at her and caught her brief glance at him before she looked at the floor, biting her lip. Finn could almost see the thoughts running through her head — but he couldn't really see them, no matter how much he wished he could.

"That's right," Puck said. "Go on."

"But it's already past eight, and I have to —" She paused.

"Boss's orders," Puck said. He lowered his voice. "You know how that works now."

"Yes," Rachel said, clearing her throat, "yes, I suppose I do. Okay." She stood, smoothing out her dress and shifting her jacket slightly. She glanced at Finn, and she leaned forward and kissed his temple. The gun hidden under her coat brushed his shoulder. He watched her walk up to stage, his grip on his glass tightening.

"I'm sorry," Puck said.

"For what you did to me," Finn replied, "or for what you set up for Rachel?"

"I didn't —"

"Fuck off."

He did. He walked away, and Finn forced himself to relax as Rachel began to sing, her voice carrying across the club. _"One morning in May, don't forget, Dear, / That one wonderful day when we met, Dear, / The world over was blue clover, / And hearts carefree and gay. . . ."_

"What was that about?" Sam asked. "You and Puck get in a scrap?"

Finn sighed. "Puck came by my apartment last night." He swirled the whiskey in his glass. "Karofsky, Turner, and Brown came too. They stormed in." He took a sip. "Puck shot my hand."

"Fuck," Sam whispered, and Finn nodded.

_"One morning in May, oh the rapture, / Tonight, Darling, I pray to recapture, / Just one hour, just one flower, / From love's faded bouquet. . . ."_

"He would have done worse, I'm sure," Finn went on bitterly, "but Rachel made a deal with Karofsky to make him stop."

"What kinda deal?" Sam asked.

"A deal to kill somebody," Finn told him, finally looking up. "And if she doesn't go through with it tonight, Karofsky'll kill her."

_"Kisses that came with the flame of Springtime, / Burning your name in my heart, / Precious to me, like a rosary, / Now that we're apart. . . ."_

"She gonna do it, then?" Sam asked.

"She says she has a plan," he replied. "But I'm not sure she does. I can't believe she would actually — but I don't know what else to believe. She wanted your _gun_, Sam." Sam said nothing, and Finn slid his glass forward. "Another one."

"_One morning in May to remember, / The love smolders away to an ember, / And dreams perish, we'll still cherish, / That one, one morning in May. . . ."_

Finn turned slightly to see Rachel up on stage, eyes closed, arms hugging herself, and so much more emotion on her face than he'd seen all day. And even as he looked at her, she opened her eyes to reveal tears as she stared out unseeingly at the audience. _"The world over was blue clover, / And hearts carefree and gay. . . ."_

Kurt came back to the bar, sitting down carefully. "She sounds amazing, as always," he noted. "But what's the matter with her, anyway?" He looked at Finn carefully, taking out his notebook. Finn didn't answer right away. He had never understand Kurt — why did he come to McKinley's? He wasn't trapped here with the rest of them. He didn't have any debts, he hadn't done anything monumentally stupid in his past, and, hell, he even had an upstanding job to pay the bills.

He claimed that he might hate this place, but he loved the people in it — or most of them, anyway, he always said. Still, Finn wanted to shake Kurt and tell him to scram, to get out of here, to save himself before he somehow ended up trapped here, too.

"Nothing," Finn finally muttered. "She's just getting tangled up in all this."

"I'm sorry," Kurt replied. He asked Sam for a drink. But he didn't say anything more, didn't ask any questions, didn't even open his notebook.

_"One morning in May to remember, / The love smolders away to an ember, / And dreams perish, we'll still cherish, / That one, one morning in May. . . ."_

Rachel didn't sing for all that long. Sometime after ten, Will ushered her off the stage. He looked bad. But he was walking and talking, and he seemed the same as always: weary and indifferent. Rachel came back to the bar. "How'd I do on my first weekday performance?" she asked.

"You were good," Kurt said. She didn't reply. She didn't even look at him. She asked Finn if he wanted to play cards. He stared at her, silently asking her how she expected this night to play out, but she only asked Sam if he could hand her the deck he kept behind the bar.

"I really don't feel like it," Finn told her.

"I'll play with you," Kurt offered.

"Please, Finn?" Rachel insisted. In the end, she played solitaire by herself. The next few hours dragged so slowly, and by midnight Finn thought he couldn't possibly take another second. This was insane. He would throw Rachel over his shoulder and storm out of here. They never should have come in the first place. They should have run.

The club had thinned, and most of those left were the regulars. Any second now, Karofsky would come over to the bar, or he would send a Bruno over to fetch Finn and Rachel, and he would demand Rachel uphold her end of the bargain. Somehow, though, time seeped forward, and nothing happened.

More people trickled out. Finn looked around. Was the informant even here? Was Rachel's plan to tell a lie to Karofsky, like Finn had suggested? Or, wait, did she mean to shoot Karofsky? No. She couldn't. She'd be smoked by one of Karofsky's boys the moment she turned her gun on Karofsky. And, honestly, to kill him wouldn't be any better than to kill someone else, not really.

"I should go," Kurt said. "It's a quarter 'till one. Night, boys and girls."

"Night," Finn said. Rachel only flipped over a card. Kurt started to walk away. "Rachel," Finn said, leaning towards her, his voice low, "what are you doing? If It's almost one, then it's almost been twenty-four hours. _Please_, what's the plan?"

"I love you," she replied. "And I hope you won't stop loving me."

"What —?"

"Kurt," she called, standing.

Kurt glanced back. "What's the matter? Did I forget my hat?" He reached up, found his hat on his head, and Rachel shot him. Fin choked on his breath as Brittany screamed and Kurt cried out, crumpling to his knees and clutching his shoulder. And Rachel only stood there, her arm raised and a gun in her hand, pointed straight at Kurt.

Rachel shot Kurt.

_Rachel shot Kurt._

No. That hadn't happened. Finn's eyes flew around in alarm. _Had_ that really happened? _No. _From across the club, Mercedes looked as shocked as Finn felt, and so did Sam, and so did _everyone_, except for Karofsky, who stood slowly, his expression smug. But then his eyes flickered from Rachel to Kurt, and his gaze turned dark.

"Rachel," Kurt said, panting, his voice breaking. "What —?"

"You shouldn't have gone to the coppers," Rachel told Kurt, her breath coming out slow and sharp. "There are only a few rules in this awful place, but that's one of them. Even I know that, and I haven't even been here a month. You should have known better."

Kurt was the informant.

And Rachel had shot him — and she still had Sam's gun pointed at him.

"You have proof, sweetheart?" Karofsky asked.

"His notebook," Rachel said, the gun trembling ever-so-slightly in her hand. "The one he always has with him, the one he writes it when he needles us with questions and listens in on every conversation we have — that has everything. Check his coat."

Karofsky jerked his head at Turner, who went to Kurt, grabbed his arm, and tore off his jacket so as to reach in and pull out his notebook. Kurt yelled in pain, his face contorting, but Turner ignored him, and he handed the notebook over to Karofsky.

Karofsky flipped to a random page. Finn held his breath. No one moved. Karofsky's eyes narrowed, and he looked back at Rachel.

"Okay," he said. "Finish the job."

She nodded. She looked at Kurt again. Her hand had began to tremble madly now. She couldn't shoot him. Finn had known that. He stood and reached for her. He had no idea what to do or how to walk out of this mess, but he would find a way, he _had_ to find a way, and nobody would die —

"Don't," Karofsky said sharply, and instantly Jelski had his gun pointed at Finn.

Rachel took a sharp breath, panic rising in her eyes. "No, don't, I — " She fired again, but the bullet missed Kurt by a mile. She started to cry. "I can't," she whispered. "I'm sorry! I've never really — I shot St. James, but he didn't die, and I — I can't!" she said, and her face twisted with a kind of terrified anguished.

"You can't?" Karofsky repeated coldly. "You want out, you kill him, or I'll kill you, and then I'll kill him, and I'll even kill your boy. Finish the job. _Now._"

"Boss," Puck said, "I can —"

"No!" Karofsky said, eyes flashing. And then he grabbed Jelski's gun, and aimed at Rachel. Finn's heart stopped. He had to do something. "Did you hear what I said, girl? Kill him, or I will, and I'll kill you, too."

"You — no, you wouldn't, you — you've never really killed anybody!" Rachel shouted, and she almost looked a little insane now, her eyes darting all around, her hand still shaking even as she kept the gun level at Kurt.

Karofsky chuckled. "You think so, huh?" he said. "And what about Azimio? I killed him with one bullet. I believe you were here." He cocked the gun. "You started this, Ms. Berry. Now finish it before I finish you."

"You won't kill me," she said breathlessly, "you wouldn't kill a girl. You wouldn't!"

"I wouldn't? Who do you think I am?" His nostrils flared, and he stepped forward. Rachel met his gaze, crying and trembling but still holding her ground. Mercedes started to step towards Kurt, only to freeze when Karofsky wildly fired his gun in the air. "Nobody move!" he shouted furiously, and he pointed the gun once more at Rachel, taking a few more menacing steps towards her.

Finn had to take him out. He had to. He had to protect Rachel, and they had to get Kurt to a hospital, and surely if Finn tackled Karofsky, then Puck and Sam would go after Brown and Jelski and Turner, and they could end this.

"You listen here, and you listen good," Karofsky snarled at Rachel. "I ain't afraid to kill when I gotta kill. You think I haven't killed a little girl like you before? Let me tell you about the last time one of mine tried to snipe to the cops. I shot her up, sweet little _Sunshine_, and I shot up that copper she talked to."

Finn remembered that. Sunshine had been tiny, like Rachel. And right back behind the club Karofsky had shot her once in the neck, killing her instantly. Finn glanced at Puck, willing him to look at him, to make sure Puck would jump the torpedoes if Finn jumped Karofsky.

"But I — you didn't kill Quinn after she — she —" Rachel stuttered, and her knuckles were white as her shaking hand gripped the gun.

"That doesn't matter," Kurt said, and Rachel's gaze spun to him, as did Karofsky's. Kurt's breath had gone shallow, but he looked at Rachel, and he managed a smile. "He's a killer. I know. It's okay, Rachel. You did what you thought you had to do. I forgive you."

"Kurt," Rachel whispered.

"Kill him," Karofsky shouted.

Finn finally caught Puck's gaze, and Puck nodded.

"But you should know," Kurt said, "the reason I've stuck around as long as I have. You should all know." And his gaze landed on Karofsky. "His real name isn't David Karofsky. It's Vito. Barletta. Vito Barletta. He was involved with the Castellammarese family. But after his dad and brother got bumped, he ran. He was a coward. He changed his name, and he started his own little crime business. Isn't that right?"

"I am _not_ a coward," Karofsky spat, his teeth gritted.

"Yes, Vito, you are," Kurt replied. "You were too scared that Masseria would come for you like he came for your dad and your —"

"Masseria was a fucking faggot," Karofsky roared, and he spun his gun to point at Kurt.

"He killed your dad and your brother, and you didn't die with them, because you were in prison in Ohio after you murdered that congressman. But you got out, didn't you? And you killed a man, killed _my father_ because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and then you changed your name so that nobody could find you, not to the coppers or Masseria. But it's over now. The coppers have found you now. You can't take that back, even if you kill me."

And Kurt, his eyes shining with hatred, spat at Karofsky.

"You wanna bet?" Karofsky growled. "Your copper doesn't have anything on me without you. And I am gonna kill you, just like I killed that piker congressman, just like I killed your stupid old man —"

"Now!" Rachel shouted suddenly, her voice shrill, her eyes wild. "_Now would be a good time!_"

It all happened in an instant.

"What the —?" Karofsky began furiously, and his eyes went wide, and then he looked furious, and he had his gun on Rachel in an instant, even as Turner pulled out his own, and Finn lunged forward, tackling Karofsky — but the gun went off, and someone screamed, and another gun went off, and glass shattered, and suddenly there were people everywhere, storming the room as somebody shouted, "NOBODY MOVE!"

Somebody yanked Finn to his feet. "Are you okay, Mister?" the man asked. He was a police officer. The people who had swarmed the room were _police_.

"I'm fine," Finn murmured, unable to breathe, his head swimming, and he looked around the room, because the gun had gone off, because Karofsky had _fired_.

The police were everywhere, and everybody was speaking at once, and _where was she?_ He saw Mike at the kitchen door, a protective arm around Tina and a police officer at his side, and he saw Turner lying motionless on the ground, a bullet in his chest, and he saw Mercedes and a police officer both kneeling beside Kurt, and finally he saw her, saw Rachel, standing with a stunned expression on her face, blood splattered across her cheek.

He stumbled towards her.

"Amazing!" Kurt cried, "absolutely amazing! I knew you were the one, Rachel! I knew you would be able to pull it off!" He looked delighted, despite the bloody mess his shoulder had become. "Oh, I'm fine," he told Mercedes, "perfectly fine. But I made you think I wasn't, didn't I? I'm an excellent actor! And so is Rachel!"

Finn reached Rachel, then, and he cut see a gash in her cheek. He cupped her other cheek with his one good hand, and she stared up at him, her breath as unsteady as his. "Are you okay?"

She nodded. "The bullet — it — it grazed — grazed my cheek, but it didn't — I'm fine —" And he wrapped his arms around her, burying his face in her hair.

"There really was a plan," he whispered. "It was an act. This was the plan." She only nodded furiously. He could feel her tears on his neck. He clutched her tighter.

"It was Kurt," she told him. "He came up with everything — it was all his idea, even for me to shoot him. He wanted me to. But I — but I — I didn't want to risk it, and then last night happened, and I just — I called Kurt this morning, on Figgins's phone, and I told him we would do it tonight —"

"Get the fuck off me!" Karofsky roared, and Rachel broke off. They both glanced over. "GET OFF ME!" Karofsky repeated furiously, but the police officer looked unfazed as he snapped the handcuffs closed. "Do you have any idea who you're dealing with?" Karofsky demanded.

"Actually," another police officer said, stepping forward, "yes, Vito, we do. My name is Blaine Anderson. We've never met, but I believe you met my brother, Harry Anderson. He worked for the Bureau of Investigation. You should remember him — you killed him right after you killed Sunshine Corazon."

"He didn't have any proof," Karofsky spat, "and neither do you."

"We have a lot of proof, I'm afraid," Blaine said. "We have the whole story to present to the jury." He held up Kurt's notebook. "We have the testimonies, I assume, of several witnesses." He glanced at Mercedes, and at Tina, and even at Rachel. "And, wait, this is the best part — we have your very own word." He nodded at still another police officer, who held up some sort of contraption that looked like a phonograph or a radio or something.

"That there's the latest from the Bureau of Investigation — a voice recorder. My uncle works there, see. When I told him that I didn't want to go after some club thug, but after Vito Barletta, the man who killed Senator Jacobson, he agreed to give me a hand." Blaine smiled. "It was nice of him, wasn't it?"

"Fuck you," Karofsky snarled.

"No, no," Blaine said, "there's no need to thank me. You did this all to yourself. But, of course, you're welcome to thank Ms. Berry. She had you spouting everything without any effort at all." He glanced at Rachel. "You're quite the actress," he told her. "Oh, and I believe we have a little more evidence, don't we?" He looked past Karofsky, and Finn followed his gaze —

— to Quinn, walking down from the second landing with a small box in her hands, her expression smug. Apparently, she had been in on everything, too. "Yes, Quinn, _yes_!" Kurt exclaimed gleefully.

"Vito Barletta's passport," she said, handing the box over to Blaine, "and a few other essential papers. There's more evidence upstairs, if you'd like to gather it." Blaine thanked her and nodded at another police officer.

Quinn looked at Karofsky. "You fucking whore," he whispered.

"Oh, look, little old Karofsky thinks he can insult his way out of handcuffs." She turned to him, and Finn didn't think he had ever seen someone look quite so terrifying. "I'd like you to know that, while you rot in prison, I'm going to marry Noah Puckerman, and I'm going to have our child, and we're going to live happily ever after. And, if ever we feel blue, we'll merely think of fat, old Mr. Karofsky, always good for a laugh."

"You —"

She slapped him.

Puck clapped.

And Karofsky cursed, but the police officer who had cuffed him finally hauled him off. Finn glanced around the room. Jelski and Brown were gone, and he assumed they had been carted off, too. Madame Sylvester sat talking with a police officer, and so did Artie and Brittany. Quinn went to Puck, who gathered her up in his arms and kissed her. Finn looked down at Rachel, her arms still wrapped around him.

"I meant what I said to Karofsky," Blaine said, approaching Finn and Rachel. "You did well, Ms. Berry. We couldn't have managed without you." He smiled.

"Thank you," Rachel murmured.

"She did do wonderfully, didn't she?" Kurt asked.

"Boy, you need to go to a hospital," Mercedes said. He waved her off.

"You have no idea how long I've planned this," he said. "I needed a partner-in-crime, but she had to be tough, willing to shoot me, even, and when I learned that the new Friday night singer was the same woman my grandmother had mentioned to me in letters, the woman who all of Lima suspected of killing the man who killed her father, I knew she could help me."

"You're from Lima?" Finn asked.

"Columbus, actually," Kurt said, "but my mother's from Lima, and my grandmother lives there still. She's an awful gossip. Anyway, I needed someone tough, but someone who can act, as well. Rachel was perfect! And I knew she would want to help once she saw how terrible Karofsky really was, once she saw how precarious the situation at McKinley's really was. Azimio died, and she knew. Of course, she didn't agree at first, because she didn't want to take such a _risk_ —" He rolled his eyes. "That's the same excuse Quinn gave months ago when I tried to ask her —"

Blaine chuckled a little. "Well, it all worked out," he said. "I'm sorry about your father, though. I didn't know."

Kurt's excitement softened slightly. "It's okay. Karofsky will finally pay for his crimes, and he won't have the chance to hurt the family I have now the way that he hurt my family before." He smiled at them all, and Mercedes ran a hand affectionately over his hair.

"Let's get you to the hospital," she murmured.

Kurt ignored her. "I didn't know about your brother," he told Blaine. "I'm sorry."

Blaine nodded. "Harry first looked into those bank hold-ups in '29, and he was convinced that Karofsky was behind them all. And then in 1930, there was a robbery in Detroit that ended with four police officers and three bystanders dead, and Harry suspected Karofsky, again, but Hoover told him to let the investigation go as three fellows were all put behind bars and the investigation was considered a success."

He glanced at Finn, but he smiled as he went on. "Harry didn't give up, though. He wanted to see Karofsky go down."

"And he got his wish," Rachel said softly.

"He did," Blaine agreed, nodding.

"You know," Kurt said, frowning a little, "I'm beginning to feel a little faint. I think I should go to the hospital." Mercedes scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring at him.

"Come on," Blaine said, "I'll give you a ride." He nodded at Finn and Rachel as he left. They weren't alone; the whole club was still filled with police officers, but they were all speaking with each other, or with one of the regulars, with Sam or with Santana or with Will, who looked hopeful for the first time in all the years that Finn had known him.

Finn looked down at Rachel. "Can you believe any of this?" she asked. "Karofsky isn't Karofsky, he's from an old crime family, and he's done time for murdering a congressman, and . . . and now he'll do time again, for good. He can't talk his way out of this one." Her eyes sparkled.

No, he couldn't really believe any of this. It seemed unreal. He would never again have to come to this club and live his life by Karofsky's word. He and Rachel really could simply walk away now, and so could Sam, and Mercedes, and _all_ of them. He might never box again, and they might not have any money, but they would be okay. They would have to talk to the police, and they would have to see Karofsky in court, and they would have to be careful not to incriminate themselves in anything.

But they would be okay. They really would.

"Thanks to you," Finn said softly.

Rachel smiled. "I did break character at the end, though," she said, frowning a little. "I wish I hadn't done that. But I had to!"

"Don't worry," Finn said, grinning, "I don't think anybody minded." He kissed the top of her head. "Come on. We should bandage your cut." He touched her bloody cheek gently.

"No," she said, shaking her head. "I have a better idea."

"What's that?"

She kissed him. "I love you," he murmured.

"And you trust me?" she asked, smiling into his lips.

"Definitely," he breathed.

* * *

The room was crowded, but Finn didn't complain when Rachel sat in his lap.

Kurt sat next to them, and Tina sat beside him. Mike stood, and Puck did, too, while Quinn took the plush chair. Artie had wheeled himself into the circle, and Brittany stood beside him. Mercedes sat down in the last seat, as Sam let Santana into the room, and then Sam sat on the arm of Mercedes's chair, leaning down to kiss the top of her head.

Rachel waved happily at them. They were adorable — absolutely adorable. But she caught sight of Santana, then, gazing around at them all appraisingly, and Rachel frowned. Why did Santana have to be here? She really wasn't a part of this. Quinn voiced Rachel's thoughts, and Santana glared at her. "Who do you think first tipped off that copper that Karofsky wasn't really Karofsky, and that a reporter who came by the club could tell him more?"

"Yes, yes," Kurt said, clapping his hands together for attention, "you did your part. And now we're all here now, so we can begin."

"Begin what?" Sam asked.

"My fellow McKinley's survivors," Kurt started, "we — Quinn, Rachel, and I — have done something immoral." He paused dramatically. Rachel shook her head at him. "You see, when Quinn went to secure Karofsky's hidden documents, she may or may not have taken advantage of the situation and _secured_ something else, something that should have gone to the state as evidence, but let's be honest — the state doesn't care about the bookkeeping Karofsky did.

"And, really," Kurt went on, "this is almost like our reward for putting a criminal behind bars."

"Wait," Puck said slowly, "are you talking dough?"

Kurt smiled. "I am." He nodded at Quinn, who unclasped the bag on her lap, and then overturned it, and bundles of cash flooded the small living room table. Puck exclaimed under his breath as Sam whistled. Rachel smiled a little. Kurt might be right, this might not be entirely moral, but Karofsky _owed_ them, didn't he? This money should have been theirs to begin with, from all the fights Finn fought and all the dirty work Puck did and all the years Sam went underpaid.

"How much?" Mike asked quietly.

"Forty-nine thousand," Quinn answered, "give or take a few twenties."

"What's forty nine divided by twelve?" Puck asked.

"Four," Rachel said, "with another thousand to spare."

"Four? That's four thousand each," Puck said, a grin slowly stretching across his face.

"What about the last thousand?" Tina asked.

"I had a thought about that, actually," Rachel said. "What if we gave the last thousand to Mr. Schuester? He deserves a fresh start — maybe he'll even reopen McKinley's as his, like it used to be." She smiled, glancing around at all of them.

"I'm with Rachel," Finn said.

"Me, too," Mercedes said.

"And me," Mike added.

"Are we agreed, then?" Kurt asked. "Four thousand for each of us, and we'll give the final thousand to Mr. Schuester." Everyone nodded. Kurt started to divide the cash, and slowly everyone began to talk. Rachel looked at them all, at her first real friends, at the group of people that had made her feel like she belonged for the very first time.

She happily snuggled a little closer to Finn.

"Oh, mama's gonna by herself a _nice_ place with this," Santana said, taking the cash Kurt handed her. She smirked and tucked her share into her coat.

"It's just in time for the baby," Tina said happily. "I won't have to work. I can care for little him or her." Mike smiled, nodding and kissing her sweetly. They were adorable, too, Rachel decided, and she and Finn each took their shares from Kurt.

"What will you do with yours, Finn?" Quinn asked.

"I have some ideas," he said softly, and he gave half a smile, looking at Rachel.

* * *

Mike and Tina left town a few weeks later, as soon as they testified in court. Tina had family in California. They promised to keep in touch, though, and when Puck and Quinn went to see Puck's mother in upstate New York, they promised to stay in touch as well. Quinn even hugged Rachel goodbye.

Sam and Mercedes were going to D.C. the next day, and Rachel had bought two train tickets for New York City that left that night. They all went out to lunch, and Kurt came, too, and somehow they ended up at McKinley's, the front door boarded shut.

Sam and Finn pried off the boards, though, and they all stepped in the club. It was dark and unkempt, but everything looked much the same as it had been left after that night a month before. Finn glanced at the bar he had sat at so many times, and at the stage where he had heard Rachel sing for the first time, and at the table that Karofsky had always made his own.

"It's almost kind of sad," Mercedes said. "I feel like this place was our home."

"It is kind of sad," Sam agreed, nodding.

Kurt scoffed. "This place was absolutely terrible," he said. "And don't try to pretend you ever thought otherwise."

"Oh, quiet, you," Mercedes murmured, knocking Kurt's shoulder with her own. "This place holds all sorts of memories. You can't deny that." She smiled a little and leaned into Sam. He took her hand, and Mercedes glanced around one last time before she nodded at Sam and they turned headed the door. Kurt followed them, saying something that made Mercedes smack the back of his head as they disappeared out into the street.

"What about you, Finn?" Rachel asked quietly.

He gazed at the large, empty club. "It does have a lot of memories," he said, nodding. "It even has some of the best ones — I met you here." He smiled at her and squeezed her hand. She pressed her nose affectionately to his arm. "I thought maybe I'd say goodbye with one last good memory."

She looked up at him curiously, and he smiled, taking a deep breath. He had bided his time for long enough. "I love you," he told her.

"I know," she said, smiling.

"And I want to say something perfect right now, and there are so many things I could say, because you — you changed my life, and you _saved_ my life, and you — you _became_ my life, and I never thought I'd ever get a girl like you."

"That's sweet," she whispered.

"Yeah?" he said. "Is it sweet enough to convince you?"

"Convince me what?"

"To marry me," he replied, and his heart pounded against his chest even as he knelt down on one knee and smiled at her. He held up a ring. "I bought it the day after Kurt gave us our share of the money, when you went shopping with Quinn, Tina, and Mercedes."

"You want to marry me?" she whispered.

"I want to marry you," he replied.

And then she started to laugh, and she clapped her hand over her mouth. Moments later, she had her arms wrapped around him, nearly knocking him onto his back. "Yes!" she squealed, "yes, yes, yes, yes!" Her words became a song, and he laughed, helping her slip on the ring. She kissed him, only to draw back a moment later and hold out her hand for inspection.

"I'll be Mrs. Rachel Hudson," she gushed.

"That might be the best name I've ever heard." He grinned.

"You two coming or what?" Mercedes called from the door.

"We'll be out in a minute!" Finn called, and he stood, helping Rachel to her feet. She kissed him once more, but she couldn't stop bouncing on the balls of her feet, and he laughed as she broke away from him to look at her ring yet again. "Let's go," he said.

She nodded. They started for the door, but he paused, glancing back one last time.

"We can always come back and visit," Rachel said, cradling her hand to her chest. "We can bring our children. Oh, our children." She smiled to herself, and he grinned at her.

"I don't think we need to," he said. "I won't be sad never to see the place again."

"No?"

"Nah," he said, squeezing her hand and leading her out of the club. "Honestly, I always hated McKinley's."

**Fin.**

A/N: I think this is the longest chapter yet! So — a good finish? I hope the whole scenario didn't seem too crazy. I tried to hint at how it would all play out, but I never managed to find a way to drop the name Vito into conversation. The Castellammareses were a real NYC crime family, and they did have a crime war around this time. Anyway, I hope you all liked how it all came together. I ended up rewriting all the scenes a dozen times.

I got really frustrated last night, in fact, in my attempt to make it _just right_ as I polished if off, to the point that my friend began to make made random suggestions for what should happen. Right before she went to bed, she summarised her favourite ideas with a final exclamation that "Fine. I'm going to write my own fanfiction where Kurt is a really bad guy, Finn and Rachel have sex under a tree, and St. James is a superhero!" I, personally, can't wait to read that one.

Anyway, I want to thank all of you now for all your wonderful reviews! This story was entirely out of my comfort zone, and every review gave me a little more confidence in it, and I kind of can't wait to start my next multi-chaptered finchel fic! :)


	11. Chapter 11

He couldn't sit still.

He shifted in his seat. He drummed out a rhythm on his knee. He glanced at the window. There wasn't much to see. He looked at his watch. It was two in the afternoon. They would pull into the station soon, and soon after that they would finally be _home_. He started to tap his foot. He glanced at his watch again. It was one minute past two now. Had it really only been a minute? He thought it felt more like five or so. Maybe his watch was slow?

He crossed one leg over the other. He started to glance at his watch again.

"Ease up, Hud," Puck grunted, his eyes still closed as he leaned against the window. "You're driving me nuts."

"Aren't you excited?" Finn asked.

Puck shrugged. "I'm beat, that's what I am."

"You shouldn't have spent all last night drinking with Rich and Gordon," Finn said.

"Least I enjoyed myself," Puck said, "unlike some fellow who spent all last night flipping his wig over seeing his cookie and didn't have a decent last drink with his boys."

Finn rolled his eyes. "Rich and Gordon were too sauced to remember their own names last night, let alone remember if I went on a bender with them. And I wasn't flipping my wig. I was just excited. Still am." He looked at his watch — only five minutes past two now. Really?

"No reason to be this excited," Puck said.

Finn didn't understand. How could Puck _not_ be excited?

"It's been three years!" Finn exclaimed. "I haven't seen Rachel in nearly _three years_! That's _three_ Christmases, and _three_ birthdays, six if you count mine, too, and nine — fifteen if you count _everybody's._ I haven't seen the boys in three years, and I haven't even _met_ —"

"Huddy, I've heard this speech before. Lay off. I'm trying to get some shut eye, here."

"You shouldn't bother," Finn said. "We'll be there soon. It's already —" He glanced at his watch. "It's already six minutes after two! And I think my watch might be slow."

"I think _you_ might be slow," Puck muttered.

Finn ignored him. He shifted in his seat again. He glanced out the window. They might always arrive early, too. He looked back at Puck. He knew Puck was excited. He had to be. Finn had seen that bottle cap necklace Puck wore under his clothes, the one Beth had made him. Finn looked at his watch. He pulled out the letter from his pocket.

_Dear Finn,_

_I could barely contain myself when I received your last letter! Quinn will take the Cadillac and meet you at Grand Central at 2:15. Ben is beside me now, and he wants me to tell you that he caught a beetle today. I love you._

_Yours always,_

_Rachel_

She usually wrote longer letters. She always had so much to say. But he supposed maybe she thought she could save everything and tell him when she saw him, which would be soon, so soon, because it was already — eight minutes past two. And how long would the drive from the house to the station be? Ten minutes, maybe? Half an hour, tops?

The train pulled into the station exactly seventeen minutes later, and Finn nearly leapt out of his seat. He grabbed his duffle, whacked Puck in the face with it to wake him, and then headed out onto the platform. He glanced around. People were everywhere, shouting and crying and hugging other vets. He didn't see Quinn, though. "Surprised you haven't taken off running yet," Puck said, coming to stand beside Finn with his own duffle slung over his shoulder.

"I'm about to," Finn said. "Come on." They walked through the station and out into the street.

"I can't believe she drove my Cadillac," Puck said. "She'll bust that old girl up, I know it."

"Oh, it's _my_ Cadillac now."

Puck and Finn both spun around to see Quinn, standing behind them in a little blue dress suit, a scarf over her curls and a smirk on her lips. Finn grinned. "Sweetheart, girls ain't supposed to drive Cadillacs," Puck said. "Goes against nature." But he held his arms open, and Quinn simply shook her head as she hugged him. But her smirk faded as she pressed her face into his shoulders and curled her fingers into the material of his jacket, clutching him tightly.

Rachel would have socked Finn if he told her something like that, but Puck and Quinn were always that way, Finn supposed. And even if they liked to pretend they didn't, they loved each other — after all, they were holding onto each for dear life now. Finn wanted to hold on to _Rachel_ for dear life. He cleared his throat. "Can we go?" he asked.

Quinn started to pull away from Puck, but he stopped her, and he kissed her. She smiled a little into the kiss before she swatted him away. "Let's go home, honey," she said. "There'll be more of that later. Besides, Beth wants to see you, too. And this one here's got people waiting on him as well." She jabbed her thumb at Finn, Puck sighed dramatically, and Quinn led the way down the street.

She and Puck couldn't seem to keep their hands off one another. Puck had an arm around her waist as they walked to the car, Quinn put one hand on the wheel and the other on Puck's knee as she drove, and every few minutes Puck would lean over and kiss her temple or her shoulder. They still managed to snipe at one another, though.

"You better enjoy this ride," Puck told her. "You're not getting behind the wheel again."

"Sure, sweetheart," Quinn replied breezily.

Finn shifted in his seat. "How long of a drive is this?" he asked.

"I'd say a little over an hour," Quinn answered.

That was a long time. Finn glanced at his watch.

"If it helps," Quinn said, "Rachel made pie."

Finn frowned. "How does that help?" He did love pie. Did she make apple pie? That was his favourite.

Quinn shrugged. "Something to look forward to."

"I don't need anything more to look forward to," Finn replied. "I need you to drive faster."

Quinn chuckled a little, Puck lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles, and Finn looked at his watch again. Quinn started to talk about renovations she and Rachel had made to the house, but Rachel had already told him all of that in her letters. Quinn mentioned Mr. Speckles, the little yapping dog that Puck had bought her years ago, and how Beth wanted to buy a Mrs. Speckles. "I'll buy her the entire Speckles family if she wants," Puck said. Quinn absently patted his knee.

She went on, talking about the cocktail raids that Rachel had already described in detail to Finn in letters, and Finn didn't bother to listen anymore. He couldn't take this. Quinn really did drive slowly. He could _walk_ faster than this. He leaned his head against the window. He knew he had done the right thing, done right by his pops and made his ma proud, and he had done his part to protect his family.

But three years was a _long_ time, a hellish time that he wanted to forget.

And, honestly, if he had known Rachel was pregnant, he never would have left.

He stared out at the passing street, and he told himself he wouldn't look at his watch again. He lasted four minutes before he looked again — but it felt like at least fifteen minutes. He pulled out Rachel's letter and read the few lines again. He tapped his thumb on his knee, thinking of that song he had heard on the radio last night.

He asked Quinn what time her watch said. His watch was obviously slow. Somehow, though, finally, _finally_, after _ages_, the car turned onto Peach Blossom Street, and all the familiar houses appeared, and Finn could feel his heart start to pound against his chest. And then he saw them, waving their arms and racing down the street. Quinn started to slow the car, and he pushed open the door and stumbled out.

"Finn!" Quinn yelled, shocked.

He ignored her. His boys were barefoot and flying down the street, shouting over and over again, as if he might somehow miss them, "_DAD_!" Moments later, Chris and Ben tackled him, and he clutched them, their voices a loud chorus that washed over him.

"Dad, you're back! You're back! Dad, look, I'm taller! Momma says I'm gonna be as tall as you! I'm tall, too, Dad! See, _look_! Dad, Momma made _pie_! Do they have pie in Philips? It's not called Philips, fat-head, it's the Philip-pines, ask Momma. Right, Dad? Wait, Dad, look at this, I got a scar on my arm, see! No, Dad, look at this, he only has a scar on his arm but I got one on my _stomach,_ and it's cool like yours. Dad, did you miss me? Dad, wanna see my marbles? Dad, _you're back_!"

Quinn rolled down the window of the car. "Boys," she shouted, "what if I had hit you with the Cadillac? You can't run out in the street like that — oh, for goodness sake, Beth, _you should have put on shoes_!" Nobody listened to her, not the kids, not Puck as he flew from the car to greet Beth, lifting her up and spinning her around, and certainly not Finn as he looked at heights and scars and marbles and two matching mops of brown hair and bright brown eyes and beaming freckled faces.

"Welcome home, Mr. Hudson!" Mrs. Cassady shouted suddenly from the closest house. She leaned so far out her front window that Finn thought she might fall out. "And, you, too, Mr. Puckerman! We've missed you both!"

He'd missed them all, too, even nosy Mrs. Cassady. He managed to wave quickly before Chris and Ben each had a hold of his hands and marched him down the street, nearly tripping over their own feet in their rush. Puck followed, Beth on his back and giggling into his ear as he told her jokes, and in the car Quinn crept along behind them all.

They passed a few houses, and Finn could just spot theirs up ahead. Finn and Puck had bought the divided house back in '38 for an absolute _steal_, and it might be Finn's most absolute favourite place in the world. He asked the boys if they wanted to race. They bolted forward, and, laughing, he followed, and then they were all there, were home, were stumbling into the front yard of _their_ house.

Chris tackled Ben and sent them both tumbling to the grass. "Momma, look, it's _Dad!_" Ben shouted from the ground, pointing wildly at Finn.

Leaning against the frame of the front door, Rachel bit her lip and smiled. She hadn't pinned up her hair, she had on a checkered dress she had bought years ago, and she was barefoot, too. He swallowed thickly. She looked like _home_. He crossed the yard slowly, the boys nearly running circles around him before they raced into the house, Rachel brushing her hand over Ben's hair as they passed her. Finn took the steps of the porch two at a time, and he walked towards her. Her eyes went glossy with tears.

He clasped her face with his hands, and she clutched his hands with hers, and he stood there for a minute, staring at her, and suddenly she laughed and a few tears leapt free. He laughed, too, gathering her up in his arms, lifting her up on her tiptoes, burying his face in her hair.

She even _smelled_ the same, smelled like _home_.

"Dad, okay, this is my _favourite_ marble, and I usually keep it in my pocket but I — whatcha doing? Dad, look! Dad, hug Mama later. Dad! _Dad!_ Dad! _Daaaaad_!"

Finn broke away from Rachel, who only shook her head softly and smiled, and Finn let Ben lead him into the house. He saw his ma, then, tears in her eyes and a grin on her face, and she held her arms open to him. "Welcome home, sweet boy," she murmured as he hugged her. She lived down the street with Mrs. Puckerman, who surely had her arms around Puck in their half of the house at this very moment.

He kissed her cheek and then turned back to Rachel, only to see _her_.

She had toddled over to Rachel, and she stood in a little pink and green plaid dress, one Finn knew Rachel had made, with her hair held back by a pink ribbon. Rachel crouched down beside her, and the little girl leaned into her, holding her teddy bear tightly. Finn came over to them, and he crouched down, too. His heart had started to pound again.

"Who's this, baby girl?" Rachel asked her. "Do you know who this is? This is Daddy, Ruthie."

Ruthie hid her face shyly behind Rachel's arm, but her dark eyes peaked out at Finn a moment later. He smiled at her. She was already so _big_. The boys had grown, too, but this little person hadn't even really _existed before_, and now she was there and clutching Rachel and watching Finn quietly.

"This is Daddy, Ruthie," Rachel repeated affectionately. "Can you say hi to Daddy, baby girl?"

"Hi," she whispered, before pressing her face into Rachel's sleeve.

"Hi Ruthie," he said.

"Can you give Daddy a hug?" Rachel asked. "You give the best hugs. Can you show Daddy?"

She looked up at Rachel and she glanced at Finn and then suddenly she held out her teddy. "This'sm'teddy, Boxer," she told him.

"Hi Boxer," he said to the teddy. He reached out and shook the bear's paw. "It's nice to meet you."

Ruthie smiled a little, hugging her teddy and smiling into the bear's ears. And then Rachel gave her a little nudge, and she toddled forward, touching Finn's arms unsteadily. He hugged her, then, smashing Boxer between them. She was little and warm and soft, and her small fingers curled into his the material of his shirt a little, and this was so much better than ten dozen letters about her and pictures that started to crinkle and fade after he looked at them ten dozen times.

"Give Daddy a kiss," Rachel said.

Wet little lips pressed sloppily to his cheek. He smiled and kissed her cheek, too, and he stood with her in his arms, her little legs automatically curling around his waist. Rachel stood with them, and she leaned forward, resting a hand on Ruthie's back and rising up on her tiptoes.

And Finn kissed her.

The world fell away under him as, for the first time in _years,_ her lips moved under his, and her tongue chased his, and he gripped her waist with his free hand and tugged her still closer to him. He wanted to put Ruthie down and pick Rachel up, and he wanted to carry her off upstairs, and then lay her down and —

— And Ruthie poked his cheek, murmuring for attention, and Chris called his name, beckoning Finn across the room to the train tracks he and Ben had set up. Rachel smiled into his lips and drew back. He turned towards the boys, even as Puck walked into the house, Beth pulling him along, and Quinn following behind, Mercedes and Sam on either side of her. "Quinn and I called everyone we knew to announce your homecoming," Rachel said.

Finn only smiled. He greeted Sam and Mercedes, and Mercedes told him that Kurt meant to come by that night, and then Mrs. Puckerman appeared with a casserole, and Quinn ushered her to the kitchen, and people were simply _everywhere._

Finn wouldn't be alone with a Rachel for a while.

He'd have to wait, at least until all the chaos calmed.

Rachel seemed to think the same, and she kissed his cheek and went to the kitchen. Ruthie wiggled out of his arms and chased after her, and Finn sat with the boys. They played trains for half an hour, before Kurt arrived, beaming and insisting on hugs from Finn and Puck both, and then he put the phonograph on and insisted all the kids dance with him. Ten minutes later, with help from the kids, Kurt convinced Mrs. Puckerman and Finn's mother to dance as well.

Before they could snare him, Finn went to the kitchen and found Mercedes and Sam at the table with Puck. "Happy to be home?" Mercedes asked, smiling knowingly at Finn and taking Sam's hand gently in her own. He knew Sam had gone over to fight, too, but he had been wounded in '44 and shipped home, safe and sound, at least according to Rachel's letters.

Finn nodded and sat, and Mercedes continued describing her job teaching in Boston to Puck. Rachel handed Finn a beer from the fridge, and her hand lingered slightly as her fingers brushed against his knuckles. He nearly reached out and pulled her to him, then, ready to wrap her up in his arms and kiss her once more, but she turned away and continued her conversation with Quinn. He should probably listen to Mercedes, and to Sam and Puck, too, but he couldn't really take his focus from Rachel.

She and Quinn argued over everything, it seemed, over how long to cook the chicken and the amount of seasoning they needed and which silverware to use and should they set up a table in the back yard and _everything_. But the way they moved around each other while they cooked, the way they expertly skirted around Ruthie as she jumped around, offering her services and babbling, the way they handed one another ingredients — it was like they had done this all a thousand times, like they were family.

They were family. They were _his_ family.

He and Rachel had rented an apartment in New York City as soon as Karofsky was behind bars, and that had been the start of everything. Rachel started to audition around the city, and Finn had found a job as a bartender at a club that didn't have any trouble whatsoever. They married a few weeks after they moved, with only Puck and Quinn as witnesses.

And then it was Finn and Rachel against the world in the best possible way, without shady characters and sordid pasts and endless money problems.

It was Rachel and Finn and the whole wide-open future spread out before them. Weeks passed into months that became years. They saw plenty of Puck and Quinn, and some of Mercedes and Sam, and even a little of Kurt, and they went to visit Finn's ma now and then, too. Rachel starred in a few plays, and Finn was sure that any day she would make it to Broadway, any day would be _completely_ perfect.

And then one day their whole life in the city came tumbling down, because they weren't Finn and Rachel anymore. They were Finn and Rachel and_ baby_.

Finn had never been so terrified in his life.

But baby came into the world, safe and sound, small and red and healthy, and baby became Christopher. They bought a split house outside the city with Puck and Quinn to raise Chris with his cousin, Beth, and Ben was born the next year. Rachel started to teach music at the elementary school, Finn and Puck started a lawn business, and this whole new kind of perfect life started.

But the war broke out, and Finn couldn't _not_ go.

The draft in town exempt fathers, at least at first, but Finn volunteered. He wasn't sure they would take him, what with his hand, but Puck had shot him in that one spot that didn't fuck a fellow's hand up (something Puck also told him proudly was purposeful), and all that really remained now was a scar. The army was more than willing to take him. And he — he simply _had_ to go.

His dad had fought thirty years before, every good fellow he knew intended to fight, and even Puck wanted to go. Rachel cried — _a lot _— and Finn had to sit the boys down and try to explain to a five-year-old and a four-year-old why their daddy had to leave for a long, long time. But, eventually, in the summer of '43, Finn and Puck shipped out.

Five weeks later, Rachel sent him a letter that nearly made him desert: she was pregnant again. He spent the next three years (two years and ten months, to be exact) waiting to come home again to her, and to his boys, and to his baby girl. And finally here he was.

Rachel caught his gaze, and she smiled. He smiled, too. Something flickered in her gaze.

"Fine," Rachel said suddenly, interrupting Quinn mid-sentence. "Add the orange juice."

"I — what?" Quinn said. "I thought you said orange juice _never_ worked well with chicken —"

"I've changed my mind. Take it away." And she thrust her spoon at Quinn, crossed the room, and tugged Finn to his feet.

"Oh, I see," Quinn said, hand on her hip. "I see."

Rachel ignored her. "Excuse us," she said, and Mercedes only smirked, dismissing them with a wave of her hand. Rachel led Finn out into the backyard. He had his lips on hers the moment the backdoor hit the frame. She laughed a little into his mouth. "I thought I might go bonkers," she murmured.

"Go bonkers?" he repeated, running his hands up and down her sides.

"If I had to stand in the kitchen another minute," she went on, trailing kisses along his jaw, "and argue over dinner with Quinn while you sat at the table, _finally_ home —" She looked up at him, her eyes wide and bright, and he slid his fingers into her hair. "And I haven't even told you yet," she murmured.

"Told me what?" he asked.

"That I missed you _so_ much," she said, cupping his cheek.

"That's okay," he murmured. "I forgive you." He started to smile, and she did, too, and he hoisted her up suddenly, muffling her laughter with a kiss as she sank into him and wrapped her legs around his waist. "I missed you, too," he breathed.

Heat started to sear through him in small, whirling spirals.

He turned slightly and pressed her against the side of the house. His mind spun, his insides somersaulted, and his hand travelled up, running over her stomach and her breasts and then up to her collarbone, and then down again, under her dress, and he groaned slightly as the warm weight of her breast filled his hand. She whimpered, but she broke away from his insistent kisses. "We — we can't — not — not that," she breathed. "Not yet."

"We can," he said, nodding and nipping at the soft skin of her neck.

"Somebody — the boys or Quinn or — they'll come looking — soon —" She finally managed to catch his eye, and as if to prove her point, Chris shouted for Finn suddenly. Finn pouted slightly as clear thought washed once more over him. He stepped back, pulling his hand from her dress and letting her slide down to her feet. "I love you," she told him, eyes apologetic, chastely kissing his cheek before she smoothed back her hair. Chris, Ben, and Beth all stumbled out of the house a moment later.

"We're gonna play hide and seek, Dad!" Ben told Finn. "Come on! Uncle Puck's counting to a hundred _right now_, so you gotta hurry!"

Rachel smiled softly and disappeared into the house, and Finn looked at the eager faces of his kids.

"Come on," he said, "I know a place where Uncle Puck will never look."

Slowly, the afternoon passed into evening. They all moved into the backyard, and Puck carried the phonograph as Finn helped Sam carry the kitchen tables from both houses out, before Mercedes and Quinn spread table clothes over them. Beth, Ben, and Chris were assigned to set the places, but Mrs. Puckerman ended up with the job when Puck started up a game of backyard baseball.

Finn played, too, showing Ben how to pitch and letting Beth hit a home run and grinning at Rachel every time she caught his eye as she and Quinn started to pile the tables with food. Twenty minutes into the game, though, Chris hit the ball wildly foul, Beth stumbled to catch try to catch it anyway, and she nearly trampled over Ruthie, who had crept closer and closer to the game, watching with wide, curious eyes. Ruthie tumbled to the ground, and Finn started towards her in alarm. "I'm sorry!" Beth exclaimed, eyes wide.

"She's fine," Quinn said. "Little kids fall." But moments later, her face pinking and her bottom lip trembling, Ruthie broke out in tears.

"I've got her," Finn said. He picked her up, found the scrape on her arm, and sat down at the table to look closer. It didn't look bad. He settled her down in his lap, bouncing her a little, but she only went on crying. Mercedes cooed at her. Quinn looked ready to take over, but Finn could take care of his own kid.

"Don't cry, baby," he murmured. "Boxer doesn't want you to cry, does he?"

He gripped the bear and shook it's head. "No, Ruthie, don't cry," he said, taking on a little voice. "I don't like it when you cry." He titled the bear forward and pressed its little black nose to her wet cheek. "Mwah," he said, before changing back into his own voice and telling her, "Aw, he loves you, Ruthie!" Boxer nodded his head. "Don't cry, Ruthie. _Mwah_."

Rachel bent down beside them, a band-aid in her hand, and she gently wiped at the scrape and put the band-aid on. "There," she said softly, smiling. She pressed a kiss to the covered scrape. "All better."

"All better!" Finn had Boxer declare. Ruthie looked back and forth between Boxer and Finn, wiping at her cheeks. "You wanna dance?" Boxer asked. Finn tilted the bear back and forth, making his little arms go up and down, and Ruthie started to giggle, bobbing her head as Finn started to hum some sort of silly made-up tune.

"You're such a good dancer, Ruthie," Finn told her. "Isn't she, Boxer?" The teddy nodded. "Mwah." Ruthie broke into louder giggles and clapped her hands.

"MamalooBoxer'sdance!" Ruthie declared.

"I see, big girl," Rachel said, smiling.

"So, is she okay?" Chris asked, making a funny face at his sister, who, giggling, leaned against Finn and hugged Boxer.

"She's fine," Rachel replied, standing.

"Can we finish the game, then?" Ben asked. "Come on, Dad."

"I'll take her," Kurt offered, holding out his arms.

Finn nodded and stood, starting to hand Ruthie over, but Ruthie wouldn't let him. She curled her hands around fistfuls of his shirt and clung on. He sat back down, and she settled into his lap, looking up at him. She pressed Boxer into his hand.

"Dad, come on," Ben said, tugging on Finn's arm. Puck shouted for Sam to come play instead. Ben turned to shout back. And Ruthie reached out, and she slowly plucked each of Ben's fingers off Finn's arm.

"What are you doing, baby girl?" Mercedes asked.

Ruthie held Finn's hand in both of hers. "Damineow," she said.

"What did she say?" Sam asked.

"Dad mine now, I think," Mercedes said, chuckling. "Lookie there, Finn. I think she wants to keep you."

Finn swooped down and gave her a loud, wet kiss. "I'm not going anywhere, Princess," he told her, and he glanced up to see Rachel blinking tears away. He grinned at her.

"Dad," Ben whined.

"None of that, little man," Rachel said. "And your game's over, anyhow. Dinner's ready. Go in and wash up. Chris! Beth!" She ushered them all into the house, and ten minutes later everybody crowed around the two tables for dinner. The phonograph played softly in the background as Finn sat beside Rachel, close enough to press his thigh to hers, and he helped Ruthie eat, and his boys told him all about Cub Scouts and school and their teachers and when they practised for the air raids.

"Momma and Aunt Quinny practised for 'em, too, Dad!" Chris said.

"Oh, yes," Kurt said, smirking, "Rachel told me in her letters. Why don't Momma and Aunt Quinny tell us about _their_ air raids?"

"Mother's a nurse, and Doc Robbins wanted her help!" Beth explained proudly.

"Yes, that's right," Quinn said, sipping her lemonade. "I'm a registered nurse, and Doc Robbins wanted me to join the local emergency hospital air raid team. Rachel joined, too, and we practised riding in the ambulances and setting up nursing stations."

"Really?" asked Mercedes. "Good on you both."

Puck laughed.

"What?" Sam said.

"Ask them what they did once they got to their practice nursing station," Puck replied.

"We practised nursing," Quinn said, smiling at Beth, who nodded in agreement with her mother.

"You mean you sat around and drank cocktails," Kurt corrected, grinning.

"I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about," Quinn said lightly. Sam and Mercedes both looked over at Rachel, who smirked into her water.

Mercedes laughed. "Good golly, I've missed all of you!"

Rachel leaned her head on Finn's shoulder, and dinner went on. Mercedes mentioned Tina and Mike, and how they had four daughters now, and wasn't that crazy? Finn glanced down at Rachel. He wouldn't say no to a fourth. Kurt talked about Blaine, and how they still saw one another pretty often. "Sure," Sam said, "they _see_ each other _pretty often_." All the adults laughed, and Beth asked what the joke was. Kurt only kissed her on the top of the head and told her to ignore all the silly grown-ups.

A few minutes later, Beth talked Puck out of his seat to dance with her. "This is my most favourite song in the _whole_ world, Daddy!" she declared. Kurt held his hand out dramatically to Mercedes, who laughed and stood and let Kurt twirl her around. "And who will dance with me?" Finn's ma asked, looking at her grandsons. Chris volunteered brightly, and Ben had a hold of Rachel's hand in the next moment.

"Come dance, Uncle Finny!" Beth called. "Come on, Uncle Sammy! And Mother! And Grandmother! _Come on!_"

"Sorry, doll, I don't dance!" Sam called.

"We'll see about that," Mercedes declared, and she pulled him to his feet, waving off his protests.

Puck swept his laughing mother out of her seat, then, and Finn took Beth's hand.

"I'll stay with Ruth," Quinn volunteered.

"But Ruthie can dance, too!" Chris said. "Right, Ruthie?" He went over to his sister, pulling her from her seat. "Come on, Ruthie, doncha wanna dance?" He bobbed his head a little, and Ruthie copied his movements, teetering around and clapping her hands in her own little made-up dance. "Likadansing," she said. "Daloodansing!"

Finn grinned.

"See, Aunt Quinny, you don't got an excuse now," Ben told Quinn matter-of-factly.

"She doesn't_ have_ anexcuse now," Rachel corrected.

"Uh-huh," Ben said. "Let's go, Aunt Quinny! Let's go!"

Finn crouched down beside Ruthie. "Will you dance with me, Ruthie?"

She nodded, jumping a little and swaying a little, before spinning suddenly in a circle and then looking at him proudly. "Wow!" he said. She beamed. Laughing, he reached out and pulled her into his arms, before lifting her up and spinning her. She squealed in delight.

Slowly, the sun started to set.

Ruthie started to fall asleep against Finn, and everybody started to grow quieter, but nobody seemed to want go in, nobody even wanted to start clearing the table. Kurt laid out in the grass with Ben, Beth, and Chris around him, and he started to tell stories about the constellations.

Rachel put a new record on, and she turned to Finn, smiling and walking over slowly. She held out her hand. "Dance with me, Mr. Hudson?" she asked. "It's a simple old two-step."

He smiled. "I think I can handle that." He took her hand, pulling her close to him. Ruthie leaned her head against his shoulder, sucking her thumb as Finn and Rachel started to dance, or, really, to sway with each other.

"I'm so happy your home," Rachel said.

"Me, too."

She leaned up and kissed him softly.

The song ended. "I should put Ruthie to bed," Rachel said, gazing affectionately at the little girl, now.

"I'll do it," he said. She nodded.

The house was quiet, and he climbed the stairs slowly, uncertainly. He hadn't been upstairs since he came home. He found her room, though, and it was so different than he remembered. Before he left, Chris and Ben each had a room to themselves, but two years ago Rachel's letters had detailed the move to twin beds in Ben's room so that the baby could have Chris's room.

He had already missed so much.

He glanced around at the wall paper with sea horses along the borders. The bookshelves were topped by a row of clothe dolls he knew his ma had made, and in one corner was the rocking chair that Finn had bought Rachel when Chris was born.

He set Ruthie down in her crib, and she blinked sleepily at him. He found pyjamas in the small bureau by her bed, and he helped her change, her limbs lazy and her eyes watching him quietly. "Goodnight, Ruthie," he whispered, laying her down and tucking Boxer securely to her side.

"Nostay?" she murmured sleepily. "Mamagimmekiss?"

"Daddy'll give you a kiss." He kissed her cheek, and he ran his hands lightly over the little strip of tummy that peaked out from under her pink-stripped pyjama shirt. "Go to sleep, baby," he whispered.

"Mamasing," she said, her eyes fluttering.

He smiled a little. "_There's a saying old, says that love is blind," _he said softly, and her eyelids began to flutter. Slowly his voice became a song, and she fell back asleep moments later. "_Tell me, where is the shepherd for this lost lamb? / There's a somebody I'm longin' to see. / I hope that he turns out to be, / Someone who'll watch over me. . . ."_

He kissed her forehead. "I love you," he breathed, watching her tiny chest rest and fall. "And I'll be around for all the rest — I promise."

He closed the door quietly behind him as he left the room, and he returned to the backyard, where everybody had finally begun to help clear the dishes. He joined in, and afterward he and Puck carried the tables back into the house. He said goodnight to Mercedes and Sam, and he hugged his mother tightly before she left with Mrs. Puckerman and Kurt, who would spend the night with them, while Sam and Mercedes took the guest bedroom in Quinn and Puck's half of the house.

Quinn led Sam and Mercedes into the house, and Puck started to follow, Beth half-asleep in his arms. But he paused, and he glanced back at Finn. "Best night in three years, huh?" he said.

"Something like that," Finn replied, smiling. Puck nodded and left, and Finn walked into the kitchen, dim and empty, and he locked the backdoor. The house was quiet. He went upstairs, and, ah, _there_ they were: Rachel sat on Ben's bed with a boy on either side of her and a book in her lap. "Dad!" Chris said. "We waited for you!"

"Hush, darling, your sister's asleep," Rachel said.

"Momma's gonna read the next chapter!" Ben whispered loudly.

"Next chapter of what?" Finn said, and he sat on the bed, Ben crawling into his lap. Rachel leaned into him and held up the book for him to see. "_The Short-Wave Mystery_," he read. "The Hardy Boys, huh? I've never read this one."

"It's new!" Chris told him.

"Don't worry, we'll tell you what happened," Ben assured.

"They go to _Canada_, Dad," Chris said. "Have you ever been to Canada? It snows lots there, right?"

"And they drink maple syrup all day long," Finn said, trying not to laugh when Chris and Ben nodded seriously at him.

"Okay, okay," Rachel said. "_Chapter three_. . . ."

Neither of the boys wanted to let Finn and Rachel leave, not after chapter three had been read, not after chapter four had been read, not after Rachel had tucked them in their beds and even sang to them, not after Finn had promised to play baseball with them again tomorrow. "I can't go to bed, Momma," Ben said. "I haven't brushed my teeth yet!"

"Dear, I stood beside you in the bathroom while you brushed your teeth," she said, standing in the doorway and looking half-amused and half-exasperated. "And I can't believe you _want_ to brush them again. Now go to sleep! The sooner you go to sleep, the sooner you'll wake up and it'll be a whole new day."

"But I don't wanna go to bed," Ben argued. "_Dad's_ back! I can't just go to sleep!" He looked up at Finn and Rachel, his eyes bright and his face shining

Finn's heart broke a little. He sat down on the edge of the bed. "I am back, buddy, and I'll still be back tomorrow. And we'll play some ball, and you'll show me that pitch we worked on, right? And then we'll go to the picnic Momma told us about, right?"

Ben nodded. Finn leaned forward and kissed his forehead. "I love you," he whispered.

"Me, too," Ben said.

Finn stood, and Rachel held out her hand for him. "Goodnight, boys," she said.

"Night, Momma," they chorused together. "Night, Dad," Chris added. Rachel flicked off the light by the door, and bathed the room in near darkness, the only light now from the small night-light in the wall. Finn started to close the door. "Hey, Dad?" Chris called suddenly.

"Hay is for horses," Rachel said automatically, leaning against Finn.

"Sorry. Dad?"

"What's the matter?" Finn asked him, just able to make out his little outline under the covers on his bed.

"Nothing. I'm just really glad you're back, is all."

"I'm glad, too," Ben said.

Finn swallowed thickly. "So am I." Finally, he shut the door, and he turned to Rachel, who smiled softly at him. "I can't believe I ever left," he said. How did he? He honestly doesn't remember anymore.

She didn't say anything. She only took his hand, and she led him down the hall and to their room. She closed the door, and she turned the lock, and she turned around to face him with a soft, triumphant gleam in her eyes. He stepped closer to her, resting his hands on her waist.

"I love our family," she murmured, and she reached for the hem of his shirt, pulling it up and off him in one swift movement. Her eyes were dark when he caught her gaze again. "But right now," she said, "all I want to do is love _you_."

And he couldn't wait a moment longer.

He kissed her, plunging his tongue into her mouth, and she moaned a little. Not breaking the kiss, he picked her up and carried her to the bed. She lay back, and he went with her, already aching. He kissed her insistently, his hands grappling with her dress, trying to push up her skirt and pull down her sleeves and just find skin, just touch her, because, _God_, did he want to touch her.

She grasped at his hair, panting into his mouth, her own hands fanning across his back. "Babe," he breathed, "how much do you like this dress?"

"Mmm? I — what?"

He gripped the collar of the dress and tugged, yanking open all the little buttons in one swift movement. He could hear fabric tear and a few buttons pop off, but he didn't care, because she lay beneath him, all soft, warm, familiar flesh, and she didn't seem to care, either, not when his lips found her breast and she arched up into him.

He nearly tore off her underwear, then, and her hands fumbled at the buttons of his trousers, and they weren't even all the way on the bed, but he couldn't possibly care less. He started to kiss his way down her stomach. "No, no," she breathed, tugging on his hair. "Later. You first. All of you. I want all of you." He smothered her words with another kiss.

She rolled them over, shrugged off her dress, and he gazed up at her with heavy lids, cupping her breasts, and she tugged down his trousers and then rocked up and then — and then she sank down, sheathing him completely. Her mouth parted slightly in a kind of silent scream. His entire body on fire, he grasped her hips, lifting her up and then slowly lowering her down again, and he couldn't take his eyes off her face, her eyes intent on his.

She leaned down, giving him a ghost of a kiss. "I love you," she breathed.

He wrapped his arms around her back, sliding his hands down to grasp her ass, and as she rose up again, he flipped her over suddenly and drove into her from above, and she screamed a little. He clapped a hand over her mouth, and she looked up at him with dark eyes, kissing his palm, before his hand travelled down to palm her breast as his lips slanted over hers.

Her knees bent and then pressed in to his hips, and with a few quick thrusts, skin slapping against skin, he felt her walls shudder and shatter around him, and she bit down on his lip, her fingers digging into his shoulder. He came moments after her, and she run her hands up his neck, burying her fingers in his hair as he finished and softened inside her.

Slowly, unwilling to leave her, he rolled once more onto his back, and she lay boneless on top of him. He kissed her gently, and she pressed her face to his, her eyelashes flickering against his cheek. He cradled her, running his hands gently up and down her back as they both regained their breath.

"What are you thinking right at this very moment?" she asked quietly.

"That there isn't a place I love more than inside of you," he replied, and he brushed her sweaty hair back from her face, smiling softly at her.

She bit her lip. "Welcome home, then," she whispered.

He smiled, and she bit her lip, amusement dancing in her gaze. He couldn't help it — he started to laugh, and she dissolved into giggles, sloppily kissing his cheek. He caught her lips a moment later, and he felt himself start to harden in her again. He rolled her over, pressing kisses along her jaw and then down across her throat.

"Already?" she breathed, before nearly purring when he nipped at the top of her breast.

"'S been a long time," he murmured. "I need several, good, long welcomes."

She broke out into giggles once more, and he didn't think it was possible to love a person more than how very much he loved her in this moment — than how much he had always loved her, and how much he always would.

"Come home, Finn," she said into his kisses, still giggling even as her breath came shorter "_Come_ home."

"Oh, I'm glad you're enjoying this," he said, and he drew out of her finally to plunge back in once more, groaning at the sensation.

She locked eyes with him. "Always."

* * *

She knew she should get up.

She should dress, and she should make breakfast, and she should greet the day.

But she couldn't move, because she couldn't leave this bed with this man — she couldn't even take her eyes off him, sleeping on his belly with his mouth parted ever-so-slightly and drool on his chin, her own sweet Finn, _finally_ home. She reached out and skated her fingers across his cheeks softly, and then she ran her hand over his hair, still so soft and terribly in need of a haircut.

She could give him one today. There would be time. They did have the picnic lunch this afternoon, though, and she knew all the neighbours would be there and would want to talk with Finn and Noah, and the whole affair would go on for hours and hours. But she couldn't really protest, as Finn and Noah were the last of the boys from town to come home, and the old biddies who planned these events had put off this one for their return.

Doc Parker had come back months ago, and the milkman, sweet little Jerry, had, too, and poor Mrs. Stutson's son hadn't come home at all and never would, but, oh, Rachel couldn't think about that. She could still remember the terror that overtook her every time she thought Finn might not come back. Every time someone in town received a telegram, she and Quinn would stay up late, sitting together, silent, too terrified to fall asleep, because the next telegram could be for one of them_._

But Finn — and Puck, too — was safely home now. Rachel had waited through the war, and through his time stationed in the Philippines while those who had been in Europe from the outbreak of war came home first, and through the three weeks Finn spent at the debriefing in Newport News, and _finally_ he was home.

Finn grunted a little in his sleep, and the arm thrown loosely over her tightened. She snuggled closer to him, kissing his bare shoulder and letting her eyes flicker closed. She could enjoy this for a few more minutes before she _had_ to get up, before the clocks chimed and the boys woke and pounded on the door and Quinn came by to start breakfast.

She could have a few more blissful minutes in bed with Finn — until the doorbell rang. She frowned. Goodness, who would come by this early? She hoped it wasn't a nosy neighbour, as happy as she would be to know that her neighbours are happy to see her husband home safe.

The doorbell rang again. She hadn't imagined the sound.

"Who's that?" Finn murmured groggily.

She sighed. "I'll go see," she told him, and she started to slip out of bed. He protested a little, but she merely kissed the arm that reached for her, told him to go back to sleep, and pulled on her dressing gown. According to the clock on her dresser, it was only a little past six in the morning. She started down the stairs, and the doorbell rang a third time.

She opened the front door.

And her hands tightened into fists.

"Good morning, sweetie," Jesse greeted, flowers in his hand.

"I told you not to come here again," she snapped. He couldn't honestly be here right now. He couldn't. Did he never give up?

"I'm sorry, did I wake you? I thought you were an early bird. I apologise. I'd love to stay for breakfast, though. And, yes, I'd be more than happy to take you to the picnic this afternoon." He smiled and held out the flowers.

"You _did_ wake me, you may _not_ stay for breakfast, and you are absolutely _nuts_ if you think I want you to take me to the picnic." She glared at him. "Leave. Now."

"Didn't you plan to go to the picnic this afternoon?" he said, unfazed by her hostility. "I know it will be hard without your husband, but you don't have to be alone." He smiled slickly.

"I'll have you know, Mr. St. James, that my husband is asleep in his bed right now, and _he_ will take me to the picnic." She crossed her arms over her chest. Finn _had_ finally come home, and Rachel would finally be rid of this man.

He chuckled. "Be serious, Rachel."

"That's Mrs. Hudson to you, and I _am_ serious. He arrived by train last night with Mr. Puckerman."

"You've cried wolf before, sweetie. Why would I believe you now?"

She grit her teeth. Why did he _always_ call her that? "You're right, I have," she told him sharply. She had lied to him ten times over in fruitless attempts to make him leave her alone. "But I'm not lying now. My husband is home, and you have no reason to be here. You need to leave," she said, "and that's the end of the discussion. We've had this conversation before, and we won't have it again. We agreed to keep the secrets of our past _in_ our past and live our own lives."

Why couldn't he respect that?

"Yes, we did," Jesse told her, smiling indulgently. "The past is the past. But the future? That's ours for the taking, you and I, the two greatest stars New York will ever see. Of course, you abandoned stardom for _this_ —" He glanced distastefully around the street. "—but I can take you back to the city with me, and I'll even put up _his_ children —"

She wouldn't listen to this. She turned on her heel and started back into the house, ready to slam the door in his face. He grabbed her arm. She turned to him furiously.

"After everything," he said, his eyes darkening, "you can at least do me the courtesy —"

"Let go of me," she snarled. He had _no right_ —

"— of hearing me out. At the _very _least —"

"I said _let go of me _—"

"GET OFF MY MOMMA!"

Rachel barely had time to blink before Chris and Ben rushed past her and pounced, shoving and kicking and wildly whacking Jesse, who tried to swat at them only to end up with his hands raised defensively as he cringed and stumbled backwards.

"Boys — _boys_ —!"

"She doesn't like you!" Chris yelled. "She likes my dad!"

"And, 'sides," Ben said, giving Jesse a particularly vicious kick. "I heard my aunt Quinny tell my momma that you're not man enough for any lady! Go away!"

Rachel wrapped her arm around Chris and finally managed to grasp Ben with her other hand, and she pulled them back. Panting a little, Jesse glanced off to the side and then looked back at Rachel, his eyes cold. "You don't have —" He faltered.

And Finn wrapped his arm around Rachel's waist. "You need something?" Finn growled.

"Dad! Did you see us?"

"We got him, Dad!"

The boys hopped up and down triumphantly, and Rachel turned slightly to look at Finn, her eyes growing wide when she realised he stood there in only trousers and nothing else at all. But she supposed it didn't much matter. Jesse St. James certainly didn't deserve any kind of decent courtesy. She leaned into Finn slightly, and she looked back at Jesse. _There_. He couldn't very well deny her claims now, could he?

"Well," Jesse said coolly, "look who survived."

"I'll ask again — you need something? If not, get lost."

Jesse only shook his head, and he sneered at Rachel. "Fine, then. I'll leave," he said. "But you know you're better than this life. You know you are. You settled. And for what?" He tossed the flowers aside, and he left. Rachel didn't release either of the boys until Jesse's Rolls Royce disappeared down the street. Ben immediately leapt for the flowers, trampling them.

"Did you see us, Dad?" Chris asked. "I woke up and I heard Momma fighting with Mr. St. Jackass —"

"_Christopher!_"

"That's what Aunt Quinny called him!"

Oh, honestly. Quinn could be as bad as Noah sometimes.

"I saw you," Finn told Chris. "I saw you both," he added, nodding at Ben when the boy opened his mouth. "I heard you, too. I think half the street heard you." He smiled a little.

"We showed him, didn't we?" Chris said. "And he won't come back again, not with us around, and with you back, too, Dad!"

"No," Finn said, but his smile faded slightly. "He won't be back."

Rachel watched him for a moment, and she looked at the boys. "That's enough, then," she said. "Go inside and get dressed. I'll start breakfast. Go on."

Chris nodded obediently and started into the house, and Ben hopped after him. She loved those boys so much, she really did, but sometimes they were too much for her. Of course, she probably loved them all the more for it. And she would never condone violence, certainly, but perhaps now Jesse would _stay_ gone.

Ben poked his head out the door again. "Arentcha coming?" he asked.

"We'll be there in a minute," Finn murmured. Ben nodded. Rachel looked up at Finn. "How long has he been after you?" he asked quietly.

She sighed. "Quinn and I took all the kids to see a show in the city with Kurt a year ago, and I saw him there. He learned that you were away, and he started stopping by after that. I never even let him into the house, but he came by the school, too, and any sort of event the town would have. I don't understand why." She really didn't. What made Jesse harass her like this, after everything he had already put her through?

"He wants you."

"But why me?" she asked.

"Who wouldn't want you?" Finn touched her hair softly.

"I'm taken," she told him.

He smiled a little. "If he comes back —"

She shook her head. "I think he's gone for good," she told him, "at least as long as you're around. And you're not going anywhere, are you?"

"No," he said. He paused. "It wasn't easy for you and Quinn here, with Puck and I gone, was it?" She had told him some in her letters, but he knew she must have left plenty out. He would slowly tug all the stories from her, though.

"Not really," she admitted. "But my life could never be easy without you. And I don't suppose your life over there was easy, either. It's a good thing that time's over, isn't it?" He smiled. She always knew what to say. He kissed her forehead, and his gaze caught hers, and then his eyes flickered to her lips, and he leaned down.

"I hope you're aware that Mrs. Abraham across the street probably has her face plastered against the window right at this moment."

Rachel pulled back from Finn to see Quinn, one hand on her hip and a bored expression on her face as she stood in front of her door and looked over at them.

"I'm happy to give Mrs. Abraham her kicks," Finn said.

Rachel swatted his chest. "Come on. She's right. And you need to get dressed. I do, too."

"I'll be over in a few minutes!" Quinn called, and Rachel nodded.

The rest of the morning passed quickly. Quinn came by and they made breakfast. Rachel thought she and Quinn should probably start to run their own separate households again now that Finn and Noah had returned, yet over the last three years she had grown so used to a daily routine that simply involved Quinn in everything.

She still smiled a little to herself whenever she remembered how terribly she and Quinn had gotten along when they first met. Quinn had once admitted that she had thought Finn was the only one worth anything in McKinley's, the only one who could actually take care of Quinn for good, and she intended to snag him for that very reason, nevermind that she and Finn didn't go well together at _all_.

"But I eventually realised he's far too big a baby for me," Quinn had declared.

Rachel had only smiled.

Because it had all worked out, hadn't it? They had both ended up with the men they wanted, and somewhere along the way Quinn had become her best friend — second to Finn, of course.

Rachel helped Ruthie get up and get dressed, they all ate, and the boys played in the backyard with Finn and Puck, and with Beth, too, and Sam when he finally woke up. According to Mercedes, Sam still refused to embrace the morning time, even long after he no longer worked nights at a bar. "Of course, comic book writers can keep any schedule they want," Mercedes said. "But sometimes the boy drives me nuts the way he refuses to wake up before noon." She smiled as she spoke, absently twirling the wedding band on her finger.

Rachel knew Mercedes and Sam kept their life private, and they never lived in one place long, as if to run from prejudices. She couldn't help but wish they would move to New York, though, and settle down and maybe even have a child or two. Mercedes would make a wonderful mother, wouldn't she? Rachel told her as much, and Mercedes only laughed.

"Dolly, you're my absolute favourite, you know that?"

"Thank you, Mercedes, I think you're lovely as well."

Mercedes only laughed more.

Soon after, they all left for the park.

As soon as they arrived, people swarmed around Finn and Noah, hugging and kissing and cooing over them, and Rachel could only shake her head and let her neighbours fawn over the two men. She and Quinn spread out the blankets and their food a little ways away from the chaos, and Rachel made sure Chris and Ben put on suntan lotion, despite their protests, before they raced off to play with their friends. Rachel spoke with everyone who came by, but, really, the sun shone down so bright and hot that she felt lazy.

Sam sat beside her for a little while, and Rachel asked him what he knew of Santana and Artie and if he had heard from Mr. Schuester. "I think he married," Sam told her. Good for him, Rachel thought. Mercedes beckoned Sam over to her, then, to introduce him to someone, and moments later Quinn sat down by Rachel.

She slipped on her sunglasses and lay back. "It's too hot for anything at all," she announced.

Rachel lay down beside her. "It really is," she agreed.

She glanced over at Finn, Ruthie perched in his arms and Ben and Chris on either side of him, and she frowned. He looked tense, even from far away. She watched him glance down, and she could see his locked jaw. What was the matter? She pushed herself to her feet. He was talking with Doc Robbins, Mrs. Cassady, and a few others, and she came to stand beside him.

"And I shot that devil right between the eyes," Mr. Brandt said, motioning with his hands. Rachel bit back a frown at the words as he grinned and Mrs. Cassady patted his arm affectionately. Finn stared at the ground, and Rachel looped her arm through his, brushing her hand affectionately over Ben's hair and leaning into Finn.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Hudson!" Doc Robbins greeted cheerfully.

"Afternoon, Doctor," she replied.

"But how about you, Hudson?" Brandt went on. "How many did you get?"

"I don't know," Finn said, and his hand fisted against Rachel's waist. She reached down and took his hand, slowly, subtly uncurling his fingers.

"My dad killed tons of them dirty Japs," Mikey Brandt said, looking proudly up at his father.

"My dad —" Chris began.

"Excuse me," Finn said sharply, and he took Chris by the hand and turned on his heel. Ben looked up at Rachel with wide eyes, and then glanced after his father.

Awkwardly, Rachel smiled at everyone, her smile cooling slightly as she looked at Gerald Brandt, his misguided son beside him. "I'm sorry," she said, "but not everyone likes to rehash the death they've faced." She nodded at Doc Robbins, who smiled kindly, knowingly, even, at her, and she followed after Finn.

He had sat down on the blanket, and Ruthie had tumbled over to Quinn, and the two were making some sort of necklace out of grass. Finn scrubbed a hand over his face and motioned at Ben. "What's the matter, Dad?" Ben asked softly.

"What did I do wrong?" Chris asked.

"It's not — you didn't — come here," Finn said. He pulled Ben into his lap, and Chris knelt down beside him. He looked at Ben, and then at Chris, and he sighed.

"I want you two try to understand something for me. War isn't — it isn't glorious. It isn't something you brag about. It isn't something you're proud of. War isn't like that. Any fellow who wants to talk about how many Germans or how many Japs he's killed — that's not right. Those Germans, and those Japanese, they've got mothers and fathers, and brothers and sisters, and even sons and daughters, and — and you don't talk that way about people. About anyone. It's not — it's not an _accomplishment_ to kill anyone."

He paused, and Rachel watched him glance seriously between Chris and Ben.

"I fought in the war, I fought to take care of you, and Momma, and Ruthie. And I did my duty. But that's nothing to brag about. You understand? And you're going to come across people like Mr. Brandt, and he'll try to tell you otherwise, but you don't listen to him, or to Mikey Brandt, or to anybody who talks about war like that.

"You're better than that. Okay?"

Slowly, both boys nodded.

"Okay, Dad," Ben said. He hugged Finn around the neck, and Rachel bit her lip, looking down and smiling, her heart swelling a little inside her. Finn told the boys to go play, and they nodded and ran off. Finn looked at Rachel. "You're my hero, you know that?" Rachel told him softly.

He started to smile, but something else shone in his eyes. "Can your hero ask you something?"

"Of course," she smiled, looking at him curiously. "Is everything okay?"

"Yes," Finn said. "It's only — since this morning, with St. James — the last time I saw him, we were in Detroit. All those years ago. And — and back then, you had all these ambitions. You would introduce yourself as the girl who'd go on Broadway someday. And now? You're living outside the city in some tiny town full of knuckleheads like Gerald Brandt, and you've got kids to chase around and a job as a teacher and you never made it to Broadway —"

She shook her head at him. "Finn," she murmured. How did she even begin? "Don't tell me Mr. St. James really made you doubt everything like that."

He shrugged a little.

"Oh, Finn, I _did_ have such great plans. But love changes great plans, doesn't it? And I know, I _know_, Broadway could never make me as happy as you do. It's not possible. I chose this life." She smiled, taking his hands. "Besides, if I wanted to move back to the city and start auditioning again, wouldn't you support me?"

"Of course," he said.

"And that's why I don't have to," she said. "Don't you see?"

"But — we can — go back to the city, I mean — if you want. We still have plenty of money saved. And I know you and Quinn had your hands full with me and Puck gone and four kids to care for by yourselves, but I'm back, and if you want —"

"Finn," she interrupted, shaking her head and smiling up at him. "I don't want to go back to the city. Honest."

He reached over and cupped her cheek. "You're happy here? Teaching music at the school?"

"I love music," she said, "and I love children, and I love watching children fall in love with music. What more could I want?" She loved him so much, but he could be so completely _silly _sometimes. "You're _home_, Finn, and every other thought pales in comparison to that. This is the life I've missed — my life with _you_ — and I won't let it go now that I finally have it back."

Slowly, he smiled, and she leaned forward to kiss him.

"Dad! Momma! Stop that!" Chris called. "Come play with us!"

"Leave 'em alone, Chris!" Beth shouted. "You're not supposed to bother mommas and daddies when they're doing mommy and daddy stuff!"

"But you should come play with us," Ben said, and he nearly tackled Finn, and then he grabbed Finn's hand and tried to pull him to his feet. "Let's go, Dad! We're gonna play tag!"

"But what about Momma?" Finn asked. "I have to stay here and keep her company."

"Dad," Ben said, his voice reprimanding, "girls can play, too! Anything boys can do, girls can do, too. Ask Aunt Quinny!"

Rachel muffled her laughter. Quinn had _far_ too much influence over the children. She better use that power for good. "I guess if Momma plays, too," Finn said slowly, looking over at Rachel.

"She'll play!" Chris said.

"Come on, Aunt Rachel!" Beth called.

"Who's it?" Rachel asked, pushing herself to her knees and then starting to stand.

"_You_!" Ben said.

"Me, huh?" Rachel said slowly, her eyes bright. "Well . . . you better run, then!" And she reached for Ben, who took off like a bullet, laughing and telling Chris and Beth to run fast. "You can't run forever!" she shouted, and she glanced back at Finn, who smiled up at her from the blanket, before starting to his feet. "You, too, Mister," she told him.

"Momma, come get us!" Chris shouted.

The next two hours passed in a hot, summer haze before the picnic started to wind down. They packed everything up lazily. As they started to leave, though, they spoke with a few more people, and Doc Robbins even came over, saying something quietly to Finn and clapping him on the back before he introduced his new next-door neighbour. "This is George Burns," Doc Robbins said, "and Mrs. Burns — Annabelle."

Rachel smiled. "My name is Mrs. Rachel Hudson," she said, holding out her hand. "I live on Peach Blossom, and this is my husband, Finn."

**Fin.**

a/n: ta-da! What'd you think? I'm sorry for the long wait on this chapter, but it turned out to be one of the hardest to write! I hope it was a fitting conclusion.

All the talk of war and cocktail raids comes from my granddaddy and grandmother's experience with the times. My granddaddy never really talked about the war, because it was over and why would he ever want to talk about it? and I imagine Finn would act much the same way. Also, little fact — "mom" used to be considered slang (at least, that's what I was told growing up_._ For a long time, actually, my siblings and I weren't even allowed to call our mother "mom," as she wasn't allowed to call her mother "mom," either. According to her, mothers should only be called mother or momma or maybe, _maybe_, for little children, mommy. Seems crazy, right?).

Anyway, please review — one last final one?


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